


Of Fire And Blood

by Jon_Stargaryen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ned Lives, Other, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-27 04:17:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6269362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jon_Stargaryen/pseuds/Jon_Stargaryen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon never leaves for the Wall. In fact he never gets the chance to, because he is taken. An essosi slaving group comes to Westeros to kidnap bastards and undesirables three years before ASOIAF. How will this change the game. </p><p>Jon is a sell sword/sail with a crew of Bastards and fellow slaves.</p><p> </p><p>NEW CHAPTER 10<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not finished yet. It's a work in progress. Please judge me and be petty about it. I mean take off for grammar and any small thing you com up with.

**JON**

The captain stood at the foredeck of The Mephistopheles staring at the valyrian steal beak of his vessel lost in thought.

My vessel? the captain thought morbidly. At one point this vessel stole him from his home and all that he knew and now he was its master.

Of all the words that could have described Jon Snow, master would have been the last thing anyone in winterfell would have called him. _Bastard!_ the voice of Lady Catelyn rang clear in his mind, the vitriol and spite as if she were spitting over his shoulder this very moment. Thinking of the Lady of Winterfell brought back so may memories, some were unwanted and others were welcome.

He and Robb sparring in the yard. Riding with Arya around the yard, and when they could sneak out, through the Wolfswood. He was mostly ignored by Sansa, but that couldn't, be helped. Bran and Rickon were too young when he left but he missed them all the same.

And then there was Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell, and now Hand of the King. Which is why they were traveling to this shit heap of a city. Jon needed answers and his father was the only person who could provide those. _And after that I'm done._ He thought to himself.

"...aye Captain." His thoughts are disturbed as he catches the tail end of his first mates words.

"What was that?" He asks as he looks over to Martyn the almost Maester his first mate.

Martyn sighs in feigned exasperation, before brushing his curly sand colored locks away from his face. "Gods man did you not hear a word I said. I was just saying how good it is to be in Westoros again." He stated, making a grandiose gesture to the Blackwater around them as they make their way into the harbor.

Jon has to remind himself to not roll his eyes before saying "And why is it so great to be in Westoros let alone Kings Landing, especially for a crew made of mostly bastards."

Martyn merely feigns insult, before he begins his theatrics." Speak for yourself Dear Captain. I for one find the the climate in King's Landing very agreeable to a man of my talents." they braced themselves as they docked and the crew ran about to tie them on and lock their store, tying the sails down. " and besides all of Westeros can't be that bad for you..." he said as he made to disembark The Mephestopheles, turning back to look at Jon before Whispering "especially with all of your trips to see a certain Dornish Princess." Martyn through his head back and laughed his melodious laugh.

Jon watched him walk away with a frown plastered to his now rose colored face before sighing, "Fucking Spies." he breathed before instructing his men to stay aboard, leaving the deck with Martyn and Rhade in tow.

Through the haze of red gradually making its way back to a neutral color on his face, he couldn't help but think of his Dornish process. Though his would never be the proper word, for she belonged to no one, which was part of her allure.

For one so small in stature, she gave off an air of pride and fortitude. Though in private she gave just as much as she demanded. His thoughts drift over her smooth, olive skin softer than silk; her wide hips sloping out from her slender middle, traveling further to meet her toned yet soft thighs; her voluminous bosom, capped by her dark coin shaped nipples. Her neck, long and strong and proud, unbent and unbowed as her word suggest. He can almost feel his hands running through her dark tresses tumbling over her smooth shoulders; trying to obscure her breasts, but failing spectacularly. His mind drifts to her lips...

He looks to either side, noticing the looks on Rhade and Martyn's faces, showing barely restrained laughter.

 _Fucking spy,_ he thinks as they make their way through the vipers den.

* * *

 

After they disembarked their vessel, Martyn greasing the palm of the Harbor Master with a few more coins than customary to provide them with Provenance; they made their way down the street of steel to have work done on they're blades and armor.

After going to several shops including the one owned by Tobho Mott, who would make a fine pirate himself judging by the price of his work; they finally found their way to a large brute of a man that offered them a reasonable price and from his samples the work would not be lacking.

Rhade deposited their equipment on the counter and and Martyn provided the customary upfront fee for this quantity of work and they watched as the smith went to work.

As they were turning to leave, a pocket of heat drifted from the smithy causing Jon to clutch his right sleeve, causing Martyn to ask "Speaking of business where is the Lord Hand at this hour?"

Jon sighed before responding. "You can't really expect the Hand of the King to be out traversing the Street of Steel" he said with a wistful tone imaging how much easier that would be than having an audience in the throne room.

His thoughts went dim as they passed Mott's shop once more, coming upon a man with dark brown hair, a long face and the color of steel.

Jon stepped forward only to have his first mate grab his arm, and tilt his head, drawing his attention to the gold cloaks and the whores who seemed very interested in the Hand of the King. with a nod of his head Jon decided to play the tourest, looking to all the world to be an enamoured traveler. Looking back to Lord Stark he made brief eye contact; grey steel on grey steel, before looking away and travelling back in the direction of the ship giving not another glance to his father.

 

 

**EDDARD**

 As he sits in his solar after his encounter with the master of coin, he cannot help but wonder if what he is doing is right.

Of course Cersei, and the Kingslayer's bastards have no right to the throne, but neither did Robert, and he put the man there. But Robert won his throne through conquest, the honorable way. 

What honor is there in dead children? The voice of his sister whispers into his thoughts, stirring up unwanted feelings from the past. The promises he made, and the promises he broke will forever shame him. The boy ran away, there was nothing I could do, he chastises himself. 

He finds himself thinking of Jon in that moment, and how it would have been so easy to pretend he was his bastard forever. The boy was all Stark, none would have bothered to question him about his clearly Stark son. 

Though Jon never asked for much, Ned always fought to include him in his family and would have denied little that he could have asked. Unfortunately, the one thing Jon wanted was not his to give away. He could have lied to him; he had done it before, and he had an oath to keep. Whenever he thought to tell his boy a false name, an Ashara Dayne or a Wylla, he thought of his sister fierce and brave and wild. What a dishonor to her memory to name another.

His mind drifted to Jon; how much he favored his mother, with his dark curls and steel grey eyes, like the northern skies before a summer flurry, accompanied by the long face which marked him as their blood. What concerned him more was how much he favored Rhaegar; that was if you knew where to look of course. Not in face, or manner but in his build.  
He was always lean and tall, though shorter than Robb, and his style of fighting was always more graceful than what Robb or Ned aspired to.

Lost in thought of his "son", his mind drifts back to a youth he observed while walking the Street of Steel after speaking with Roberts bastard. The boy could have been Jon, with his northern long face and his longer dark curls. He wore simple grey and blue wool, and traveled with two others; a dark skinned man, tall in stature and broad of shoulder, with long black hair and almond shaped eyes, the other was shorter than the rest and slighter of frame, with the tanned skin of of a reachman, honey brown hair and honey brown eyes. Jon's doppelgänger looked in his direction momentarily, before ushering his group in the other direction, leading them towards the harbor.  
They only made eye contact for a moment, but that was more than enough time to note the coloring of his orbs. Steel grey like the sky before a summer flurry, so common in the North.

Ned brings his hand to his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. His mind was too clouded with thoughts of decisions that must be made: who will take the throne, how will I deal with the Westerlands, what will become of the Queen and her Bastards, and most troubling how will I tell Robert.

It is during these thoughts, that he is informed of Roberts return and more importantly his injury.

As Robert gives his final words and makes his last decree, there in nothing he can do but listen and confirm that his wishes will be followed.

He left the chambers with his Kings decree, his choice already made.

 

 

**JON**

Jon was sitting on his bed playing his lute, lost in thoughts about home when Martin walked into his chamber, looking rather distraught. He walked over to the decanter, passing over the goblets splayed before him, tilting the container back and pouring it into his mouth.

Ten heartbeats...

Twenty heartbeats...

Eighty heartbeats later and Martyn still seemed reluctant to speak. It was at this point Jon could not take the silence.

"Did you want something Martyn?" He asked in a huff, "other than my wine selection?"

Martyn gives a mournful groan and looks up "How much is this information worth to you?"Jon places his lute to the side, sliding to the edge of the bed and resting his hands on his thighs. A long moment moment passed without anything being said, then he laces his hands and rests his chin on the peaks of his knuckles. "Quite a bit to be honest, I am in danger of losing my life here."

Martyn gives a wry smile and he immediately begins to regret his choice of words. Before he can take his mistake back his closest confidante replies by simply stating " Good. Because your father is likely to die and the truth with him," he looks toward the lute and continues to say "and saving him might cost all our lives."

Jon's breathe begins to quicken and he is barely able to get out his next words.

"What.. What do you mean."

Martyn turns a sympathetic eye to him and states matter-of-factly "I mean he is trusting Lannister cronies and snakes, in a pit of vipers too far from his lands and influence." He takes another swig of wine then continues "mm.. Chief of which is one lord Petyr Baelish: master of coin, prolific pimp and owner of the third largest ring of spies and cutthroats in Westeros"

Jon grips his lute, the strings digging into his hand. "What's our next course of action?"

Martyn taps his length of chain to his temple, deep in concentration "Best case, we kill them before they kill the Hand, or we get him out of the city and-"

"He won't leave. He's duty bound to serve his King; whoring and drinking be damned." Jon shakes his head, frustration likely visible on his face.

Martyn moves from his perch across the room, pacing and muttering "We need to call the men and decide the next course of action, but for now we wait" he said after a brief deliberation. "Either way you can't find out the truth without him, and if you ask now he will likely avoid the answer." 

His voice was one of resignation, having heard from Jon about the numerous attempts to find out who his mother was. Though at this point it was literally life and death, they could not risk failure, especially with enemies on all sides.

The Captain of The Mephistopheles looks at his hands, contemplating the creases and curves that were as old as his body; the new scars, signs of his struggles so far. He then runs his hand through his long black mane. "Alright, call the men together."

"Great, we start planning tomorrow, I'll wake them at first light." Martyn makes to leave, believing their business done.

"No.. No, we call them now." He looks the, Almost Maester in the eye before saying, "the sooner we prepare and get ahead of this, the better the odds of survival."

"Aye Captain" is all the first mate says.

 

Not much later in the evening, his lieutenants assembled at the harbor, before making their way onto the ship and into the captains quarters, which were the furthest from the dock and any other vessel. As Jon stared around the council table he greeted each member of his crew with a nod.

He stared silently at the men in front of him for a moment. Then another. Before long it became an uncomfortable silence.

It was only broken when Lothor Stone, his strong yet, not so silent master at arms cleared his throat.

"So Captain?" He said and shifted his weight to his left leg, running his hand through his hair the color of beaten gold with hints of red, giving him a crown of red gold. "Flowers already told us. What do you propose we do?" he asked, sky blue orbs flickering from his captain to his twin Willam, who stood next to him as a constant mirror.

Jon rubbed his hand down his face, internally cursing anyone named Lannister. He then looked directly to Willam and Lothor "First we need, figure which teams will be stationed where, then we must find the appropriate attire." They looked to him with confused expressions, and he let out a wry chuckle stating simply "Well, we can't attend court looking like pirates." They all looked to him with bemused expressions, anticipating the days to come.

The next few days were spent in preparation: laying out their wardrobes, creating a strategy of dealing with the Lannister men, collecting information about the parties involved and creating an exit strategy in case their plans proved fruitless.

Nearing the final day of preparation, one of Martyn's whores... Spies, he remembered. Anytime he referred to one of the workers as a whore, Martyn admonished him on the merits of treating all those in your employ with respect.

Either way, the Spy walked into the room, barely covering herself, and gave Martyn two slips of parchment. He carefully inspected the pages, reading and rereading the missives before laying the first in front of him.

Jon looked over the page carefully, reading to himself; Our Lord Hand has put his faith in the Mockingbird and his Gold Cloaks, but the Bird is really a snake that feasts with Lions. Jon rubbed his temples, breathing deeply before whispering a resigned "Fuck."

Martyn tsked. "Why so negative captain?" He asked walking around the table to hand him the other slip of parchment. "At least we know of his treachery, so now we can prepare. And besides" he snatched the parchment from Jon's hand and replaced it with the second missive. "Now the only color we need to protect is grey." He plastered a shit eating grin across his face and walked away.

He watched his spymasters' departure from his cabin as he unfurled the parchment before him.  
He let the slip fall to the table and cupped his eyes with his hand, before mumbling "Oh Sansa, what have you done."


	2. Making Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the preparations are made, and the conflict is coming to ahead, but what happens when a new and unknown player disturbs the game?  
> .....  
> Well, I'm not gonna tell you.  
> Read and find out.

**JON**

As they filed into the great hall Jon couldn't help the rhythmic beating of his heart, almost like a melody. He could imagine these Ladies and Lords, boot lickers of the highest order, dancing to the cadence of his anxiety in all of their finery. If only they knew what he knew, could feel what he felt; but of course they could feel it. The tension in the armed men around the hall, the stiffened spine of their Queen, all were on edge as the stage was set, waiting for the scene to inevitably reach its crescendo. His men stood poised and ready to take action if need be, dressed in their finery to blend with the wealthy and affluent members of Roberts' court.  
Court proceedings are going as expected for the time being, giving his mind time to wander, floating in and out of the ethereal plane. Eventually it settled on how they had gotten here, in Kings Landing; that fucking hole.

* * *

 

It was a peaceful day, though on the Ruins of the one-greatest-society-in-the-known-world, peaceful was a relative term. His reason for being there was mostly the countless treasures rumored to be within old Valyria; though he was entirely above grave robbing, could it really be considered that if it was not an official grave. He was out searching for antiquities and artifacts, prowling the ruins of Old Valyria, trying to find anything of value; though after two weeks away from his crew, he was starting to believe his endevour would prove fruitless. 

On his way back to the rendezvous point through mist and debris and sadness he heard a lough cruch and found himself falling, and then it all went black. As he lay there dreaming, images of dragons and wyrms, beasts of all shapes and sizes, majestic and terrifying began to plague his thoughts. Considering his current location, this was not what he would consider strange. This all changed however when he saw little Arya, or not so little Arya as the case may be, for like his sister she had the stark coloring but unlike her, this woman was of an age with him and she could easily be considered beautiful, not in the traditional southron way; in a wild way like the North during a summer flurry, or the Wolfswood, in the midst of winter; untamed.

As her image drew closer, he could see that she was not alone. Obscured behind the the foliage, a man clad in black with red trimmings, threw out his hand and pulled her close, a few silver strand escaping his hood as the pair embraced.

He tried to reach her, to call out to her; his voice abandoned him, his limbs would not respond to his commands, almost as if they didn't exist. The scene shifted to this Arya, lying in a bed, belly swollen with child while a man with platinum blonde hair, he assumed the same man he saw in the snow capped woods, kissed her head and running his hands through her hair, making her so many promises; promises of freedom, of love and adventure, speaking of destiny.

This time, when the scene shifted, he found himself in the same chamber as before, with the woman he thought was Arya, writhing in pain. She lay on her elbows, knees separated as she breathed hastily and heavily. She then let's out her first audible screech of pain, her midwife working to keep her calm. Again he tried to speak, to move, to scream or do anything that was marginally more than useless. She let go of another scream, tearing his heart to pieces, as he rail against this invisible cage holding him.

"I see, the head." The midwife stated in a confident and reassuring voice, trying to sooth the mother to be.

That was when he heard the sounds of the door splintering over her screams. His mind filled with terror, watching as his sister gave birth alone, while an intruder worked to get to her for what reason, he knew not. "Keep pushing" her midwife said, "we're almost there!"

He heard a deep voice, hoarse with worry ring out.

"Lya!" The voice said as this Lya, as he now knew, gave a mind shatter screech of pain. And then there was crying as his mind faded from the scene, the last thing he heard was a whispered "Ned?"

He awoke immediately, his thoughts scattered and panicked, he reached for his sword and grasped nothing, which only exacerbated his fear.

Calm your mind he told himself, then took a breath. Then another. Then one more.

With his heart beating steadier, he looked around; though more to the point, he observed.

Up above was a hole where light shimmered over him, illuminating part of the room. Judging by the position of the Rays and the position from which he fell, quite some time had passed; at the very least a full night.

He moved to push himself from the ground, his hands grasping a hard, coarse and curved object. He looked beneath where he had been moments before, only to find a large dragon skull. Though it was more accurate to call them the remnants of a dragon skull, thanks to him.

Looking away from the skull, he made to appraise the rest of the chamber, which could only be described as an armory. He drifted towards the closest rack, turning several of the blades in his hands carefully, as to not lose that hand.To his surprise they were all made of Valyrian steel.

Though it was not odd to fin Valyrian Steel in Old Valyria, it was odd to find so much in one place. Though with the rumors that The Doom still rules Valyria circulating, it wasn't too far fetched.

After a while, he noticed that the sun was approaching high noon, meaning he had been lost in thought for some time.

He quickly found a trunk that may act as a crate for most of the weapons, except for the spears, and loaded as many weapons as would fit in his makeshift container. He then carefully hoisted the container out of the armory through the entrance he had made.

He was readying himself to leave when, for unknown reasons, he stopped. On impulse he turns, plunging onward into the shattered remains of the armory. He moves to the far corner of the room where no light could possibly dwell, placing his hand on the door he finds; though 'find' is not the most accurate term. He knew it was there; felt it was there.

He pulls on the large ring that acts as a handle, accomplishing nothing other than frustration.

He looks around for something, anything, to assist in opening the door, when his eye land on the discarded spears left in the racks. He quickly move to grab a few, then scrambles back across the room to jam one within the crevice of the door.

With all that he can gather, he pushes the spear towards the wall parallel to the door, fighting and pushing and grunting until he hear a series of soft creaks, right before the resounding crack.

He pries the door open, the musky smell of decay and disuse passing over his face, nearly forcing him to retch. He keeps his composure and resolve in check.

Onward. He takes up another spear and moves into the dark, leaving the relative safety of the armory.

As he travels down the corridor, he cannot help the feeling of familiarity. He has never been here before, though he finds himself moving easily through the corridors, past room and around corners. It is almost as if there is a string tugging him toward some ultimate destination.

This feeling continues until he comes upon a large room, with a vaulted jagged ceiling; though the term room is relative, for it is more of a cave.

Following the beacon, he moves across the cave, gingerly stepping in front of a small alcove, with a clutch of large eggs in it; nearly a dozen if his first estimation is correct.

As he bends down to examine the eggs, he sees a glint shining on one of them; a black egg with white jagged swirls.

He reaches out his hand to touch it, caressing the exposed side, when he feels an uncomfortably sharp pain in his hand travel up his forearm.

Upon further examination, he's sees a glowing red mass of veins on his forearm extending to his wrist. He looks down at the egg to see their designs glowing.

On an impulse, he stumbles out of the cave and into the closest room, where he discovers another crate along with some fabric in decent condition, dragging it into the cave and loading as many eggs as he can. He briskly makes his way back to the armory, only losing his way twice before making his way back to his exit.

He quickly binds as many spears as he can together, using the fabric as casing, which surprisingly does not shred. Then using the rest of the fabric, he ties the containers to the package containing the spears, trudging off in the direction of the beach, the throbbing lessening as he travels.

When he reaches the skiff, he cannot say how much time has passed, only that the moon has risen and fallen at least twice.  
He begins to load the ship when he is set upon by-

* * *

 

Jon is broken from his thoughts by the entrance of Lord Stark, with his household guard as well as a handful of Gold Cloaks. The Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Hand of the Former King, began the coup by denouncing Joffrey Baratheon as a bastard of incest. 

It was at this point that Jon began to focus on the Gold Cloaks easing their hands to their swords, shifting closer to the Northmen, poised to attack at a moments notice.

Jon tapped his foot audibly, twice to the ground and listened as the sound was echoed by his men, confirming that they were in position.

As Lord Stark gave the orders to have the Queen and her bastards taken into custody, the room erupted into a sheer panic. Many Gold Cloaks, near on third, moved to strike only to find swords in the necks and backs, killing them instantly. His men clearly made a dent in their numbers though not enough.

As he looked around, he could see Northmen falling left and right, clearly lax due to the perceived advantage in numbers. Though several of the northern guard fell, just as many fought back; and with the aid of Jon's men, the altercation quickly became one-sided.

Though his were few, they were disciplined, and of the twenty men he brought with him for this part of the plan twenty remained. Though they lacked the numbers, their ability and unity more than mad up for the disadvantage. No man fought alone and all his men fought as one.

His admiration of his men was cut short as he saw the Kingsguard advance into the fray.

Jon looks to his left to Rhade, who simply nods, then to his right nodding in the direction of Willem as they engage the Kingsguard, their three to the opposing four.

Jon is confused until he looks past their attackers, noticing a man, straight of spine and stiff, conflict etched on his face. His thoughts are quickly brought back to the matter at hand when his sword clashes against another, steel ring on steel. The man looks into his face with cold pale grey eyes as they break apart, appraising one another before attacking again.

The first is a swing which Jon quickly deflects, contributing a thrust toward his opponents exposed shoulder. The man deflects the attack off of his pauldron, moving in for another attack, an overhead swing. Jon sidesteps the move, placing a kick to the mans knee, breaking it before bringing his sword down on the mans sword elbow, the Valyrian steel carving through flesh and bone and metal like snow.

Then using the mans own sword, he stabs through his other arm. He then turns to continue fighting, only yelling over his shoulder "Stay down."

He then moves on cutting through one, two, three Gold Cloaks with the flick of his wrist, only to find one of the Kingsguard sneaking to attack Willem from behind.

Without delay he runs to intercept the man, throwing his shoulder int his body knocking the knight to the floor, sprawling to get to his feet first. He does, and swiftly takes full advantage, throwing himself into a flurry of attacks, slicing and hacking and denting armor. The white knight narrowly avoids his end several times, unfortunately he commits himself to his defense too much overextending his body.

As Jon moves, poised to attack, he barely notices the flash of steel in time to set his guard. It seems the final knight has made his decision, for he is looking into the sky blue eyes of Barristan the Bold.

"Hold Ser Arys," he says through his visor, "you have done well." He then returns his attention to his opponent. "Who are you?" he asks as they circle one another, looking for gaps.

Jon has no issue with holding conversation, as it helps him recover his breath, so he responds simply "Just a man looking for answers..." He say, with a light thrust to the inner thigh of Ser Barristan, who easily bats it away before returning one of his own to the midsection, which Jon knocks away with the same ease. "Unfortunately, Lord Stark is the only one with real answers for me" he says as an ambitious Gold Cloak rushed to attack him from his, not so blind spot.

The mans armor, as well as the ornamentation, make him sound like a wagon full of metal rumbling through uneven ground.

He barely move from his fight with The Bold, turning slightly to thrust his sword point into the would-be attackers lower thigh, just above the knee.

Never being one to waist a good resource, he uses the mans momentum, shoving him into Ser Barristan, who loses his balance trying not to skewer his ally. Jon capitalizes, attacking the mans sword, going after the cross guard with a body shattering swing, the telltale sound of steel shattering rings out.

He quickly mashes the pommel of his sword into the brow of the knight, leaving him unconscious before the throne. He then turns to the previously named Ser Arys. "Where is your last sworn brother." He says, his voice like ice, giving no room for debate. "I hear tale of the Kingslayer's March through the Riverlands, and you are five; where is the seventh?" He steps on the mans groin as if proving his position of power.

Arys gives an strangled cry, "He is on the Queens business." He says as if the words are poison.

Jon smashes his pommel into his brow as well, giving the knight a well deserved rest.

He then turns to appraise the room, counting their losses; he sees he has lost two men out of the twenty crew he started with, sighing with regret, though there are no living Gold Cloaks of Red cloaks that he can see.

He turns to Rhade, holding his Valyrian steel Arahk aloft over a few dead Gold Cloaks a Kingsguard member, cut from the left shoulder to the right waist and a large man with a scarred face lying unconscious with a fresh long scar down the center of his face. His large dothraki lieutenant looks to him and nods, before sweeping the room for any living enemies.

Jon turns to a few of his men, telling them to bind the living Knights of the Kingsguard and the scarred man; any man that attacks Rhade and lives can be very useful. He then instructs others to have the Queen and her son taken to the dungeons. He looks around for Lord Stark to provide a guide to the dungeons, only to find who he assumes is Petyr Baelish pinned against the wall, Lord Starks hand round his throat.

"You would betray men?" the Lord Hand screams as he slams the thin, weasel looking man to the wall, looking ready to murder the man.

Jon simply looked on before shouting to his father "Lord Stark!" The Warden of the North turned with a look of open resentment, before his features turned to one of awe. "I would have words with you, if you would allow me?"

Again, the Lord of Winterfell stared at the him with a look of confusion mixed with something akin to... relief.

 

Eddard Stark hobbled across the room, as quickly as could be expected and crushed him in a warm embrace, before saying just one word.  
"Jon?"

 

**ARYA**

Her training with Syrio was well underway, when suddenly, they were interrupted by Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard, ordering her that her father had called for her.

She was prepared to depart with him until Syrio pointed out what should have been obvious: why would father send Meryn Trant and a host of Lannister men to get her, instead of his own guards. 

It didn't make any sense, especially with the scuffle between the red cloaks and their household guard. She then voiced her doubt, picking up her wooden sword, to the amusement of the Lannister men, she stood at the ready.

The two parties exchanged words for a moment, another the merits of the Kingsguard, before Meryn Trant, who was less amused tan the others simply said "Take her!" lowering the visor of his helmet and signaling for three men to come forward. 

They drew closer to her as she heard their chain mail clang lightly with each step. She calmed her nerves and stood at the ready, waiting as Syrio stepped forward tapping his wooden sword against his boots. "You will be stopping there. Are you men or-"

Syrio was cut off by the sound of boots stomping the floor of the corridor, moving with great haste towards them. Suddenly three men emerged from the archway of the door. The first of which was taller than the others, with golden hair and broad shoulders. If not for his eyes, which were the same clear blue as the skies above the Riverlands, he could easily be confused for a Lannister. To either side of him was another swordsman; both broad, though not as much as himself and tall but shorter than the leader. She simply thought of them as left and right. They were all dressed in similar clothes dark blue and grey, bearing no sigil.

The blonde man scanned the room, appraising the red cloaks and Ser Meryn, then looking to her with a casual smirk. "How many Lannister men does it take to kill one Stark girl and an old man?"

Ser Meryn, for his part looked to be fuming. "This does not concern you" he said giving no room for argument "leave now or die!"

The blonde man look to his companions before they collectively laughed at the white knight. The leader caught his breath before saying, "Peace. I came to collect Arya Stark." At this she bristled until he continued saying "Though I was given orders to kill any red cloak I saw." He pauses briefly as the Lannister men reach for their swords, "oh, and incapacitate any Kingsguard I run into. That too."

The red cloaks have all drawn their swords, turning their backs in a circle to avoid the chance of surprise. Then as one the newcomers drew their swords, all hand and a half swords, all made of Valyrian steel.

Then the blonde looked to either side, saying "So two of the Crimson shits for each of you, and I guess I'll take the white shit and the last on then?" Left and Right nodded their heads, then the blonde looked to Syrio "You old man! Protect the girl."

Syrio looked insulted, though he nodded all the same.

With that the two sides sprang into action.

The blonde man engaged Ser Meryn and the closest red cloak, striking hard and fast. Carving gashes in the armor of both men. He moved rhythmically and methodically, almost as if there were a song in his head: he thruster out quickly at Trant, causing him to parry, then brought his sword up knocking the wrist of the Knights sword arm, then as the red cloak made to interfere, he remove a knife of Valyrian steel, retreating while tossing the knife casually into the mans foot. As the red cloak lost his balance, the man blonde struck him across the brow o his helm, blood rushing through his visor, then shoved him into Trant who was just regaining his balance. As Trant fell, his opponent swung clean and true to take of his head, and then stabbed the red cloak through the visor.

As both men lay dead on the floor she turned her attention to the others still dueling, but now it is three versus, one lying dead on the floor. The blonde quickly moved to stab one of the remaining three through the gap between his helm and torso. This caused the others to be distracted long enough for Right and Left to both skewer one of them, Left through the chest, Right through the eye.

The blonde man was now looking at them both, a questioning look on his face. "How long does it take to kill two men?" He sighed in exasperation. "You even worked together on it and I still had to save your asses." He sighed, nodding his head in a sort of apology, before looking to her.

"You are Arya Stark, yes?"

She nodded and he stepped forward, only for Syrio to stand at attention, ready to defend her.

The blonde man merely sheathed his sword, putting his hands up as a sign of good faith. "Your brother sent me to protect you."

"How do I know you're not lying?" she retorted, "and why would Robb send men to get me with father here? You're not a very good liar." She held up her wooden sword.

He took one more step forward before saying "And you assume I was speaking of Robb Stark. Tell me do I look like a northman?" he asked with a sarcastic tone, but he was right he looked more like one of the Vale Knights she had seen at the tourney, only more tanned. "No I was not sent by Robb Stark, though a brother of yours did send me," he paused "and he wanted me to ask how your needlework is coming along, whatever that means."

She looked at him with surprise on he face. No one, not even father knew about that day before they left, when she received a present from Jon, though she thought it was a dream.

* * *

 

She had made her way back to he rooms, continuing to prepare for her departure from Winterfell when she heard a soft scuff. She turned to see a figure with dark brown hair, and steel grey eyes. She was tempted to name him as father, but she had just left her father. Their father! 

"Jon!" she yelled, before he placed a finger to his lips.

"Hello little sister." he said mussing her hair. "How have you been?" he asked, shifting slightly, allowing her to see a parcel wrapped in linen. 

"What's that?" She said pointing to the parcel with a sheepish expression, at which point Jon gave her the linen wrapped object. They just stood there for a moment looking at one another, until she realized that he wanted her to open it.

She remove the wrapping from the parcel, slowly exposing a slender blade of smooth castle forged steel. She grip the handle of the sword, feeling the balance in her hand. Stepping back, she gave a few practice swings into the air. Perfection!

Only then did she notice Jon staring at her, expectantly. "I said, what are you going to call it. All the best swords have names you know."

She thought for a moment, scrunching up her face before "Needle." tumbled out of her mouth.

He looked at her for a moment before mussing her hair once more, then walking towards the door.

"Wait!" she cried out, only to have him cover her mouth with his gloved hand. She nodded, letting him know she would be quiet and he removed his hand. "Where are you going?" she whispered.

He looked down at her and shrugged, "Back to my life, I suppose." he said with a sigh.

"Stay here with Robb and Bran and-" she stopped herself before she could say it, though from the look on his face he knew what she meant.

Then he said it. "And your mother?"

She looked to her feet trying to find the words; when she finally did, he was gone.

* * *

 

Since that day, she spent countless mornings checking her belongings for Needle, reassuring herself that it was not a dream.

She looked at the man in front of her, still not sure to trust him, so instead she ask "So you know Benjen?" at which point the man rolled his eyes and mumbled under his breath.

"Jon Snow!" He nearly shouted it, doing little if anything to conceal his frustration "His name is Jon Snow, he is the bastard son of Eddard Stark. I know this because we traveled north about five moons ago so the captain could see you off and give you that sword!" By the end he is breathing heavily and clearly annoyed. "Did I pass your test My Lady?" he asks with sarcasm dripping from his mouth.

She only nodded, and looked down.

"Good." He turns to the others "You two, we must escort he to her brother and father. I will lead, you two follow behind." He looked to Syrio then "And you. Guard her with your life"

Syrio nods, and they depart from the room.

As they rush through the corridors, Arya notices the bodies of several red cloaks and gold cloaks alike. Left notices her staring and says "They would've killed you and the old man. We made the only choice there was." 

She nods at him and swallows her feelings as they turn a corner, running into the throne room just on time to see Jon thrusting his arm into a brazier and grabbing a handful burning of coal, tossing it to the floor.

He then yells at their father, "Now I believe that for my service to house Stark, I deserve to know who my mother is! You owe me that!" As the fabric of his sleeve burned away, she saw the pink glowing veins on his arm.

Oddly enough, it is only then that she realizes that his skin is unburnt by the flames.

 

**EDDARD**

For a moment they just stood there, held tightly within one another's clutch. The scene around them seemed to recede, leaving only them; father and son united once more, Jon standing proudly in defense of his father. His mind, having finally settled, began to process the events that had just transpired.

His life had been saved by his nephew, who he loved like a son, who for years he thought was dead. Out of the blue, Jon returned when he was needed the most to protect his family; fighting like a demon, his movement like music, rhythmic and steady.

When the gold cloaks moved to attack, he knew his time had come; putting his faith in the wrong people had always been his fatal flaw. Baelish used his wife to manipulate him and gain his trust, while the entire time he planned to betray him.

Unfortunately for the master of coin, not all were as blind as him, which was evident when the gold cloaks began to fall en masse and with them so did Baelish's smirk. Some of the Northmen fell and with them many more City Watchmen fell.

The men Jon brought with him were methodical; not a single man stood alone, fighting side by side, switching opponents and blocking for one another. They were disciplined, never hindering one another, likely adding to their collective efficacy and that did not include the more senior members that he saw with Jon.

Besides his son, there were two other men that seemed to be of a higher caliber altogether.

The large warrior with dark golden-red skin and dark brown almond shaped eyes. The man used a curved blade which, like all of the men's weapons, was made of Valyrian steel.nfor his size he moved swiftly and struck true, dispatching several gold cloaks and Ser Boros Blount, before struggling with Sandor Clegane for some time, eventually defeating him and further scarring his face.

The other man, blonde of hair with red peppering his locks here and there. He too fought well, though his blade was faster than the foreigner's, and his style was more polished. His strikes focused on accuracy, using a long sword in his right hand and a short sword in his left, proving to be quite adept with both.

The most surprising was Jon, slaying several gold cloaks and neutralizing the Kingsguard, including Ser Barristan the Bold. He then moved into action, having the Queen arrested and her children taken into custody.

As Jon walked about, tending to their wounded and making moves towards their next steps Eddard could not help the pride that swelled within him.

When they released one another, he could feel the tears swell in his eyes. "Where have you been all these years? How have you come to be here? What happened to you all those years ago?" he asked in rapid succession.

Jon simply chuckled before opening his mouth to let out a sigh. "Where do I begin?" He ran a hand through his thick dark mane, "I've been a sail sword and a sail sail for several years, even starting my own crew," he said with a sweeping gesture to the assembled men. "As to what happened: around the time I went missing, there was a crew of essosi slavers prowling the lands of Westeros, looking for undesirables, and bastards." Jon paused, a far away look over his face. "But that is in the past. We freed ourselves and formed a brotherhood."

Hearing a set of heavy steps moving closer to them, the pair turned to see the large foreigner standing before them carrying Ser Arys and Ser Barristan under either arm, Sandor Clegane over his shoulders. He spoke in a harsh, guttural tongue, which Jon then retorted in the same language. The man nodded and walked away, signaling for three men to follow him.

He looks to the man who knew him as father, asking the question that he dreaded most "Why have you come here Jon?"

Jon's lips curved into a melancholic smile. "I need answers." He shifted his weight uncomfortably and continued. "It's about my mother. Who was she?"

Ned looks at Jon for a long moment, listening to the shuffling around them, hoping for a convenient distraction. He sighs, his prayers unanswered, "Jon, after so long why-" he is interrupted when Jon ruffles the sleeve of his tunic, exposing his forearm.

Looking down at the exposed skin, he can clearly see veins of red, glowing with an ethereal sheen, like spider webs fashioned out of translucent blood. Jon begins to shake his head.

"I have a suspicion that she is of Valyria. I just can't figure out whether she is of house Velaryon or Targaryen." He looked to him with a questioning look.

Ned was not prepared for this, apparent by the gaping look he has for his son. "How do you figure that?"

Jon's expression was sheepish, almost childlike "I was searching through the ruins of Valyria when I came upon a fortress; above ground it was in shambles, nothing left! But I fell through the foundation into an armory-"

"I noticed." Ned cut him of with a wry smile.

"But that's not all," he said, looking around nervously, "I found eggs. It was like they were calling to me?" his expression changed from one of excitement to confusion. "But when I touched them, this happened," he indicated the veins "and that isn't the last of it."

He walks across the throne room, coming to a corner with a lit brazier, looking once more to be sure he is not watched before running his hands through the coals.

Eddard reaches for his shoulder jerking him back, fearing the worst. When his hands are free of the inferno, Ned looks to them, turning them over in his palms. They are still hot to the touch, but no marks can be seen. He searches his mind thinking of a lie, an explanation he can provide.

Only then does he realize that Jon has been speaking for some time.

"- and I know house Velaryon was said to have never been dragonlords, but they could have been wrong." He was rambling in barely audible bursts. "I've been searching for Valyrian women of age around the time of the rebellion, but I've come up short." Ned realizes he has to put a stop to this now. "So I thought why not come to the source? Surely you can-"

"JON, STOP!" He shouted causing the courtiers and the soldiers remaining in the hall to turn their focus on the pair. "You cannot ask me that." He sighed, thinking of the boy's mother, "I have done all I could to do right by you, by your mother. I had hoped it was enough, that I was enough."

Jon clenched his fists, his teeth grinding, his jaw to resemble stone. "You do realize that I saved your life?" he said, his voice becoming eerily calm, his eyes alight with words unsaid. "It took a considerable amount of effort and I lost good men; trusted men and brothers."

"I recognize this and I am grateful-"

"Just not enough to give me the truth; this truth that should have always been mine." He says in the same challenging tone. "Now I believe that for my service to house Stark, I deserve to know who my mother is! You owe me that!" He shoves his hand back into the coals tossing them across the floor.

Ned locks eyes with him, exhaling before making his decision "I will tell you, but not here," he holds up his hand preempting Jon's interruption "we will discuss this on my terms. Now on the morrow at mid day-"

He is cut off by the sound of feet tapping the floor, hastening in their direction. "Jon!" His youngest daughter jumped into her brother without hesitation.

Ned looked at the pair and smiled, thinking of Lya and Brandon.

"We will speak on the morrow." He told Jon, who simply nodded as Arya began to speak, babbling about her dancing master and the fight that had ensued.

He called for a steward, feeling weak from the days ordeal. As he filed out of the hall, he could not help the sense of foreboding.

 _Not only fire, but dragons eggs_. He felt a shiver, thinking of their legend and the havoc they wrought.

 


	3. Truth & Tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned confronts Cersei, then Sansa. Cersei thinks she's found her escape route through Jon.

"Father, I implore you to see reason!" Jon said desperately, breaking the silence that engulfed them. Ned feels a strong hand gripping him by the sleeve of his tunic, forcing him to look into his eyes. "What I speak is true." Jon sighs, looking down for a moment. "I had men watching everyone; the queen and Sansa included." He looked back into his father's eyes, steel meeting steel once more. "Which is how I knew of Baelish's betrayal. It's also how I know that Sansa was the one who ran to the queen."

At that Ned jerked away from the boy, not caring to hear this same argument again. "Sansa would not bring harm to her own blood." He growled at Jon, a guttural sound which brooked no argument. Unfortunately he was sorely disappointed when the his words did not stop the boy from continuing.

"Then prove me wrong." Jon looked to him, his eyes pleading once again.

Ned sighed under his breath, wishing to be done with this conversation. "You would have me ask the treacherous Lannister woman?" He asked, for what seemed like the thousandth time in the last few days. "What makes you think she will answer honestly?"

To this, Jon merely shrugged. "What reason does she have to protect her informant?" Jon asks in rebuttal, making more sense than Ned would prefer. "And even if she speaks false, if what she says about the traitor matches my information, how can it be a lie?" Ned turns from him, only for Jon to step in his path, forcing his father to look at him.

He ran a hand through his dark mane, contemplating the boy's proposition. He huffed in exasperation. "We shall go to speak with the Lannister woman. If she speaks to what you have claimed, I shall treat it as fact."

With that, the Hand and his-- something, made their way from his solar, heading through the corridors of the Red Keep toward the Black Cells. On their trek, all he could think of was the implications of this discovery; his own daughter, the perfect example of a lady, betrayed him to a family of murderers and cutthroats. He hoped and prayed that Jon was misinformed or that he had ulterior motives, for the truth might be to much.

His thoughts receded as they made their way to the door, Jon's men standing guard of the prisoners. Though Jon swore to their loyalty, he had his doubts that a group of pirates and sellswords could be trusted.

The men nodded to the visitors, unlatching the gate into the dank prison and allowing them passage. The first thing to hit his nose was the stench, which was odd, for the whole capital smelled of piss and shit to the extent that it was burned into his nose; this foulness however, was a new form of awful.

Jon stepped forward, grabbing a torch from one of the sconces and lighting it in the large brazier near the door. He then stepped passed Ned, moving to the cell housing the deposed Lannister queen, the torch illuminating their way.

It only took a few steps to reach her cell, coming before the bars and illuminating the cell.

Inside the cell sat the remains of the once regal Cersei Baratheon. For a long she stares at them in silence, her hatred so thick and palpable that he can feel it in his spine. For her part she seemed to hold her head high, obviously holding delusions of power she no longer has. "Lord Stark?" She says, her voice hoarse with disuse. She clears her throat. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" Her eyes drift to Jon and she arches her back further, presenting her prominent bosom. "And who might this be?" She purrs sweetly, amplifying Ned's image of the lying whore.

Before he can answer her, Jon steps forward. "If you answer my question, I will tell you who I am and more." He says, stepping flush with the bars.

Queen Cersei moves forward, pressing against the bars, running her hands along his body making Ned less comfortable. He makes to move forward until Jon shakes a hand behind his back, signaling that he need not intervene. The queen whispers into his ear softly, Jons hair and the lighting of the dungeon making it impossible to read her lips.

Jon moves away from the Lannister woman, a smile pulling at his lips. "I will keep that in mind Your Grace." He says, adjusting his breeches.

The Lannister giggles slightly at this, a harsh sound. She then turns to Ned. "What would you ask of me Lord Stark?"

Ned sighs, lamenting the decision to follow Jon into this pit. He could still walk away, name Jon's words as false. "Who informed you of my plans? Who told you that I would take you into custody?" He asks, the words tumbling from his mouth.

She cocks her head sideways, seemingly curious about his question. "Are you certain that this is what you want to know?" She smiles sadly. "You cannot un-open a door, and you may not like what is on the other side."

Ned gives no voice to her words, nodding his affirmation to continue. "I went to Baelish because a little bird told me a tale, and he confirmed that you had come to him wanting his support." She pauses, looking at him as if gauging whether or not she should continue by his face. "We would do anything for our children, wouldn't you agree Lord Stark?" She swallows roughly. "Although, they tend to be our downfall. Like a child who believes she is in love, betraying her father?" With that, she recedes into the cell, her smile flashing wider and brighter than before.

Eddard suddenly has difficulty taking in air, rushing from the cells as quickly as his injuries will allow. He moves through the castle, finding a small alcove and collapsing in it with his hands on his face.

It was true, all of it; his daughter betrayed him for the queen's bastard son, for the boy who signified Robert's greatest shame. Not his greatest shame, Ned thinks to himself as he hears the scuffle of boots on the ground, looking up to see Jon.

Jon puts a hand out to him. "Father, you must rise." He says as the Warden of the North grips his hand. "Difficult decisions must be made."

He looks into his son's eyes. _My son_ , he thinks to himself as he rises from his stupor, knowing what he must do. "Call for Alyn and three others, trusted men. Be they mine or your own, I care not." He sighs, his mind fragmented wondering if he is doing right. "Bring them to the Tower of The Hand." With that he departs, heading toward the Tower of the Hand and the hardest decision he has had to face in near seven-and-ten years. He slowly makes his way up the stairs toward Sansa's chambers, his leg throbbing harder with each step towards the door. As he stands at the entrance, his heart floods with emotion, few of them being positive. Before he can back away he places a firm knock, waiting for the door to open to him, to reveal his daughter.

He hears the shuffle of feet before the door swings inward, exposing the small form of Jeyne Poole. "Lord Stark?" He smiles sadly down at the orphaned girl. Her father had died in the ensuing Lannister betrayal, leaving her as an orphan without direction.

"I must speak with my daughter in private." He looks over the girls shoulder, seeing Sansa for the first time. The girl looked to him for less than a moment, seeing the seriousness in his eyes, then filing out of the room carefully avoiding physical contact with him.

He advances into the room, straightening his gait as best he can, pointedly looking anywhere in the room besides Sansa. His hands trail over the bureau placed beneath a vanity mirror, coming to a stop as he fumbles at an embroidery hoop. It is a simple thing, the outline of a lion of gold and a wolf of grey, the insides not filled. He fills his anger and disappointment digging their way to the surface.

"Fath-" 

"I spoke to the queen today." He cuts off the small, innocent voice of his daughter. "She had a great deal of things to tell me." He says in his formal tone, the one he uses on men the likes of GreatJon Umber and Rickard Karstark.

"No one will tell me what has happened." She says frantically. "I heard shouting and fighting, but there was no word, is the queen alright? What happened to Joffrey?" Her eyes are hopeful for the safety of the queen and her bastard. For the woman who ordered the deaths of his men.

He breathes deeply, caging the beast raging inside of him, drifting his eyes upon his daughter for the first time. "They have been arrested and charged with treason." His voice is iron. "The boy is the bastard of the Kingslayer and his sister. When we tried to take her into custody the City Watch turned on us." He ran a hand through his hair, chafing under this roundabout explanation.

"Father?" Sansa looks at him with barely contained tears in her eyes. 

"Many of our men died, caught of guard by their treachery." He balled his fists at his side. "But thanks to some assistance from Jon, most of us survived." He stepped closer to her, careful not to frighten her. His voice was low and measured, when next he spoke. "Queen Cersei told me everything."

With those five words the dam burst, Sansa releasing her unshed tears. "I didn't know, I swear it." She sobbed out pitifully, grasping for his doublet. "I-I-I didn't want to go and I thought m-maybe the queen could order you to stay?" She sobbed into his chest. He wanted to cup her cheeks and dry her tears; he wanted to tell her that all would be well, that they would go back to Winterfell and live in peace.

But life is not a story and the knight does not always save the day. He hears the knock to the door, forcibly removing Sansa from his chest. "Come in." He raises his voice, hoarse with emotion.

Jon steps through with Alyn and several Stark guardsmen in addition to the large foreigner. He turns back to Sansa. "You will be confined to your quarters until suitable transport can be arranged for you back to Winterfell. You will only be allowed to leave for emergencies and to visit the privy." He looks back to his men. "Is that clear?" They all nod their assent.

"Father please!" She begs clutching at the sleeve of his tunic, like the scared child she is. "I'm sorry for all of the trouble I-"

He whirls on her causing her to stumble, retreating to the bed. "Sorry?!" He bellows, causing her to jerk back further. "Do you not understand what you have done? Men- good honorable men-" He rubs a hand down his face. "Men who devoted their lives to your safety are dead because you wished to live a tale of Knights and Maidens and songs." He looked back to his men, pointing to each of them. "Without Jon and his forces, we would have been overwhelmed, not to mention the men he lost." He releases all of the anger that has been building up in him; _against Catelyn, against Robert, against Baelish and Brandon and Lyanna and father and Rhaegar._

He puts a hand out to her, watching her recoil before settling it on her shoulder. "Sorry only covers for the mistakes of children, though you made an adult decision to defy my word as your father." He sighs, bringing her to him. "For any other, they're head would have parted their shoulders. But I as my daughter, you will escape justice, though you will have to live with the deaths of men whose only mistake was doing their duty." With that he walked to the door, ignoring the pleas and cries of Sansa at his back, ignoring the presence of Jon beside him, ignoring the tears tracing the lines in his face.


	4. Grim Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has two very different encounters with two very intersting men.

**JON**

Things seem to be turning around as Jon makes his way to the White Sword Tower.

Earlier this very morning, he received news from his own Quarter Master, informing him that there was a development in Baelish's accounting discrepancy. For the past three days, since Sansa's arrest, he had thrown himself into looking through everything that has anything to do with their prisoners, from Cersei's connections with the city's elite to Baelish's men in the City Watch. It was during this digging that his Quarter Master, a man with a shrewd eye for figures, informed him of several financial errors in the Master of Coin's books. This led them to the conclusion that Baelish was either an idiot with no sense for numbers, or he was a genius who used his position to embezzle money from the crown; they unanimously settle for the latter.

It had taken them several days to find the trail leading to where Baelish may have hidden his money, in addition to some dealings with a certain second daughter of Hoster Tully and Lady of the Vale. This was the reason for the small smile threatening to migrate towards his ears as he knocked the door of the White Sword Tower.

He stood there for a moment, waiting for one of his men to open the door, before a bulky man opened the door, allowing him to enter. Judging by his build, he was clearly one of Rhade's men. "How is Lord Baelish faring?" Jon asked, his voice like iron as he used his Jon the Captain voice.

The man shifted uncomfortably, failing to meet Jon's eyes. "He's got a few bruises and scrapes. Nothin' serious." The crewman stated, though there was a question in his tone. Looking up to see Jon's face, the man quickly stumbled over his previous words. "N-no. What I mean to say's that he tried rilin' up some a' the guards, tryin' to buy us off." He swallowed hard. "Well some a' the boys ain't like that. So they showed him a lesson in loyalty?" The big brute shrugged his shoulders sheepishly.

"I wanted him unharmed." He growled, stepping closer to the larger man. "Was something about that unclear?" He asked, rhetorically.

The man bristled, preparing himself for the strike that would never come. "We was-"

Jon cut him off with the wave of a hand. "I guess you can't be punished for showing me loyalty." He sighed, seeing the man relax visibly. "So long as he isn't too battered?" He raised a brow to the man, waving him aside as he strode forward, climbing the stairs to the top floor of the tower. Coming upon the door, another of his men stepped aside to allow him entry. Jon clutched the handle of the door, swinging it open and being met with the sight of a slightly bruised Baelish; in all honesty, the man had a small bruise from a love-tap beneath his eye, nothing to write a grand story about. If he were being forward with himself, he would've hoped for more, though he is a captain and must set an example.

The silence in the room extends, Baelish looking to him with feigned boredom. "How do you find your new quarters Lord Baelish?" Jon asked, though he expected no answer. That expectation was met when Baelish continued his silence, looking about the room as if he were taking in the sight for the first time. "We wouldn't want armed brigands trying to take you from us once more." He smiled at the slight twitch in Baelish's face, know that mention of his failed rescue would up would disturb his composure.

Only hours after the arrest of the Queen Mother and her small council, a small contingent of City Watchmen made an attempt to storm the Black Cells. Most interesting was the fact that they bypassed the entire Royal Family to free their Master of Coin; the group was made of no more than sixty men. They stormed the cell block, finding no one guarding the prisoners, only realizing the oddity of a gaol with no gaoler when the trap was sprung. From either side, they were bombarded with crossbow-bolts and skewered with spears, leaving them no time to counter and their rescue attempt in failure.

For his part, Baelish seemed to be taking his prodding in good stride. He had yet to make a sound above a low gasp or slightly heavier breath. Jon intended to break him of that.

"So, my dear Master of Coin, you should be happy to learn that I have found a lead on the Crown's financial woes." He said, noticing the slight widening of the weasel's eyes as, before his face slipped into an impassive mask once more.

He licked his lips, swallowing spit before retorting. "And what have you found, my noble bastard? Please enlighten me?" He inquired, his tone condescending and casual, as though he were not bound in chains and strapped to a chair. "Does that word offend you? Bastard." Baelish was clearly taunting him, and true, the word may have bothered him as the bastard of Winterfell. Though now, as a man grown who has tasted the fruits of the world over from Dorne to Southros to the Valyrian Freehold, the barb was more embarrassing to the wielder than himself.

"Not at all My Lord. We are what We are no?" Jon stepped closer to the man, extending his arms before him with his palms facing up. "A bastard sellsword and a petty lord from a barren spit of land." He began, seeing the dry smirk about Baelish's face. "Both risen to prominence through their own means." He finished, clasping his hands, signaling a strange kinship or camaraderie.

Baelish merely smirked, giving no true emotion away. "As you say. Now you had a point, yes?" He said curtly.

"Yes. I did have a point." He said, accepting Baelish's rebuke of his attempt at common ground. "I've found some irregularities with your book keeping." He said, pulling a chair to rest before his captive and taking a seat. "Imagined workers being paid for services never rendered, tourney purses being doubled or even tripled on paper, goods being purchased yet never being delivered." He continued, unsheathing his dagger from his belt, placing the tip to Baelish's chest. A quickening of the rise and fall of his chest, the only indication of his fear as his eyes were steely calm. "Almost as if someone were altering the books and stowing the difference away? Now either you are woefully unfit as a Master of Coin, or you are so fit for the job that you embezzled millions of dragons from the Crown without either King Robert's or Jon Arryn's notice." He leaned forward slightly, gauging the mans reaction. "I'm actually really impressed. Though I suppose I shouldn't be, as you did betray my father."

For a natural deceiver, Baelish certainly put no effort into his next words. "I resent your implications. I was a faithful servant of the Crown during King Robert's reign, May the Father judge guide him justly. And as for your father, he sought to usurp His Graces' claim. I did my duty." Baelish kept his calm as he defended his actions, almost as if he believed his own lies. 

The hearty laugh that escaped Jon's chest had been building for some time, flowing free like water from a broken dam. "You really seem to believe your words?" He said, plunging his dagger into the mans leg, releasing a stone shattering screech from his captive. "But I don't have time for this." Baelish seemed to be wrapped up in his pain, ignoring Jon's calls for him to listen. He smacked the man once. Then twice. Then once more for certainty, as the door opened behind him. "Look at me my lord." He said, flicking the pommel of the embedded blade. When Baelish continued to wail, he shrugged, rising to his feet and ripping the blade out of his flesh, provoking another shout.

He looked back to see the Martyn standing behind him, a look of horror and befuddlement on his face. "He'll be fine." He said looking back to Baelish and again to Martyn. "Maybe. Either way I was just warming him up." He said as he walked to Martyn, who was busy organizing his kit on the desk near the door.

Martyn looked to him skeptically. "Are you certain Lord Stark will approve?"

To that, a Jon merely chuckled. "Not likely, but what choice do we have?" He sighed in exasperation. "The Crown needs those funds to pay their debts, and the Lord of Knaves is not like to tell us out of the goodness of his heart is he?"

His friend ceded the point, sharpening his tools. "Best you leave now brother. This is the messy part." He said, running his fingers along the tip of the knife.

Jon merely nodded stepping to the other side of the threshold, closing the door. As he made his way down the stairs, Jon heard the first sounds of-- negotiations with Petyr Baelish. More likely than not, the entire Red Keep heard the screams emanating from the White Sword Tower, the sound of a weasel being skinned.

* * *

Jon's thoughts drifted as he made his way down the corridor leading to his chambers. Reflecting on all of the preparation that need be made, he almost missed the faint smell of lavender as he reached his door.

The smell clearly came from the other direction of the corridor, leading into his room. On instinct he took out his dagger, slowly and soundlessly pushing the door open, not knowing what to expect on the other side.

The sight that met him was not wholly puzzling; a rotund bald man adorned in flowing silks, leaning over his desk, is a strange sight after his meeting with the Master of Coin. The man seems to be looking over his documents and ledgers, though Jon knows not what he seeks. 

Choosing expedience over caution, he decides to just ask the intruder. "If you tell me what you're looking for, I may be able to help you find it?" The man halts in his movement for only a moment, briefly pausing before turning to Jon. His head is completely bare, his jaw and brows included. Before he can discern more, his eyes are immediately drawn to the flamboyant and ostentatious silks the man drapes around himself, deep purple of the fabric like fresh plums. The man seems harmless on the outset, though his clothing gives cause for alarm, the billowing silks lending ample space for hidden weapons. So focus on his garbs, Jon almost missed he amiable smile that stretched across the his face. _No, not amiable_ , he thought, _predatory or amused at best_.

"I was merely waiting for you my lord, when I decided to tidy up your desk for you." The man answered so fluidly that he almost seemed to believe his own lies, though the adage was not lost on him. _Lies and false courtesy_ , he thought as he fought not to grind his teeth and clench his fists, _already off to a bad start Lord Varys_.

Deciding to keep his thought private, he selected a less confrontational response. "Thank you for the favor Lord-" he stopped, offering the Master of Whispers a window to introduce himself. He would play the fool for as long as he could, giving these snakes a false sense of security.

"I am no lord, though people tend to refer to me as one." He said dancing around the question for a bit longer. "I am Varys, Master of Whispers."

He raised a brow in false question, a small grin on his face. "Have you come to expose all of my secrets?" _Or are you assessing new variables in your little game_ , he thought as he stepped around the paunchy man, taking hold of his decanter and two goblets. He poured himself a glass of Dornish Red along with one for the snake in his garden. "Wine?" He handed a glass to the man.

The Master of whispers took the glass, drinking a large measure before retracting the glass, bringing it down to his torso, showing the contents drained. "Thank you for your generosity, though I have come for another reason." He paused, placing the goblet on Jon's desk. Jon raised a brow, bidding a man to continue. "I offer you a gift." He reached into the sleeves of his gown, causing Jon's sword hand to twitch. He pulled free a small journal, bound in leather and brown, nearly the color of dirt. It could not have been larger than his hand, though it was certainly greater than it appeared as the Master of whispers saw fit to gift it to him in person.

He kept his calm, barely giving any indication to his thoughts. "A book? How thoughtful." He replied, his tone expressing boredom and monotony.

"Not just any book." The paunchy man moves forward with grace and speed that should not be his, closing the gap between them and extending his _gift_. Jon takes the book in hand, giving no voice to this strangers overfamiliarity nor his overwhelming fragrance. He turned the book over, noting the three-headed dragon on both covers, accompanied by Valyian script on the spine.

Calm yourself, he thought as he schooled his features. "Why would this interest me? I am no dragon."

Varys tittered to himself, a sound Jon was starting to associate with headless fat men. "Yet you clearly have the blood of the dragon." He gestured to Jon's sleeved arm, causing him to shield it defensively. "That mark is proof."

His patience with this eunuch I s wearing thin, though he refuses to show it. "I remember no instances of dragons and wolves mating." He rubbed a hand through his long mane, contemplating what this could mean; many houses had fought for the right to lay with dragons when they were in power, and his uncertain origin made his mothers lineage somewhat difficult to ascertain.

"Not many, no." The eunuch said, gaining Jon's attention before continuing. "Not too long ago a dragon took a she wolf to mate and the realm bled." The man stated, no sense of shame or tact in his words.

Jon was now visibly shaking in anger, his teeth grinding uncontrollably. "You seem tired Lord Varys." He said, chest heaving, barely containing the beast within as his voice grew raspy. "It may prove more prudent reconvene at a later date, perhaps when my _father_ can attend us?"

The fat man took his hint, bowing his head as he backed out of the room. Before he could make it to the entrance, he gestured to the book he had gifted. "I've taken the liberty of marking several passages of note." He said, pointing to several leaflets protruding from the pages of the aged text. Jon ran a finger through the markers, acknowledging the words of the snake.

"I give thanks for this gift Lord Varys." He returned, nodding in respect. "My day has been taxing, and I fear I have misplaced my anger." He said, spewing manure from his mouth, claiming it as spiced fruit.

Varys bowed his head, slipping through the door without another word, his feet sliding on the floor softly.

Jon closes the door, sliding the bolt in front of it. He tosses the book onto his desk, watching it slide over the surface, disturbing his goblet before thudding against the stone floor. He takes a step toward the desk, gripping his goblet by the stem, making a mental note to have all of his wine disposed of.

He shuffled to his bedding, pulling back the sheets, inspecting each portion for snakes, spiders and scorpions. 

After a thorough examination of his linens, he walked from wall to wall, patting the stones and stomping the floors checking for hollow spots, marking each he found with an X etched into the stone.

Satisfied with his tenuous security, he crawled beneath his top linens, nestling into a troubled nap, staring at his _gift_ upon the floor until his body complied with his wishes.


	5. Prisoners Delima

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some stuff happened she grabbed his d!@&. A lot.

**CERSEI**

She sits in the darkness, caked in her own filth and grime, watching the small creatures move about in the dark almost blending with the stone. After her imprisonment, each day seemed to follow this routine with few exceptions. She reached out, chains rattling against the damp stone as she captured the closest rodent in hand. _Wandering too close to a wounded lion is unwise_ , she thought, tightening her grip and pressing on its head with her thumb, feeling it go limp in her hand. She tossed the rodent to the side, hearing a sudden chorus of rattling soon afterwards.

Her head whipped in the direction of the noise, the chains clanking more violently than before, now accompanied by dozens of guttural shouts competing for supremacy. The sound was not entirely unfamiliar, as each time a gaoler came to tend them the Knights and lords would shout their titles and honors, as if that would phase the bastard's men.

As the shouts grew louder and closer, she took not of the faint spec illuminating the walls, growing closer along with the scuffling and shuffling of boots on moist stone. It only took a moment more for the boots to stop before her cell, revealing to her the looming form of Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell and sail-captain.

The bastard nodded to her, letting a small smirk light his comely face; she had studied him during his many visits to her cell. Like his father, his eyes are Stark grey and his hair deep brown and curly. His face could be described as long, though he was more comely than his father and far easier with a smile.

"Your Grace?" He broke into her thoughts, his tone almost soothing in delivery. "I hope you have not found your accommodations lacking. I would hate to be a discourteous host." He turned his head to the side, hand to his chest in contrition.

Cheeky little bastard, she thought as she schooled her features, readying herself to play their little game. "No offense has been taken. I find the cold stone soothing to my back, so ruined from years of soft featherbeds and warm blankets." She smiled, fighting to take the bite out of her demeanor and tone.

He chuckle huskily, gripping the pommel of the sword at his side. "I must apologize for taking you from such comforts." He gestured for the gaoler to step forward, stepping away from her bars while continue of those behind him. The small paunchy gaoler with a limp swung the door open, stepping inside to unshackle her, stepping away when the deed was done.

Her binds dropped to floor, clanking roughly against the stone. She brought herself to her feet, rubbing her wrists and finding them raw. She stepped out of her cell, seeing the bastard unclasping his cloak revealing the dirk at his side. He stepped forward, wrapping her in it's warmth, stroking her arms as he smiled down at her amiably. "You are still a noble lady." He said, ushering her to walk next to him. "It would not be proper for you to catch a chill under my supervision."

They walked through the corridor, escaping the Black Cells and moving through the Red Keep down a path she knew all too well.

As they made their way through the Royal Wing, she spied men in the uniform garbs of the bastard's army, spaced evenly throughout the corridor. "They mean you no harm." Jon said, looking into her eyes, steel on emerald. "I have given the order for them to stand down. They would not disobey." He nodded to each man, receiving a salute from each, a fist raised to their chest.

She looked back to him, noting the intensity in his gaze. "And what of Lord Stark and his wants?" She asked, probing for cracks. "I can imagine he does not approve. Will they disobey their lord?"

Jon stroked a hand through his hair, caressing his scalp. "They are on loan to him, acting as his army until he can make it back north." He shifted uncomfortably. "Your men had a hand in that, though he did bring too few into this vipers nest."

He released her arm as they came upon her door, so enamored with this boy she did not realize they were so close to her chambers. "We will be moving you to a more secure location at dusk. I would have you properly cared for before your departure, as befits anyone of nobility." He scrounged his brows. "Call it a courtesy."

They stepped into the room, the handmaidens in the Greyson of House Stark stepping forward to strip away her clothing, a bit more roughly than necessary. You win or you die, she thought to herself as their rough hands tore at her small clothes.

She looked back to the bastard; he ordered the guards to step outside, then turned back to look upon her naked form. "There is no need to be so rough. She is already our prisoner." He cocked his head to either side of her, addressing the maids with a raised brow. "I doubt Lord Stark would approve?" He took a step forward.

"This harlot and her family tried to have us killed. Good men died so her bastard could keep his throne." One woman shouted, gripping her arm roughly.

Jon stepped forward, loosening the woman's fingers. "And most of their men are dead and ours yet live." The woman made to protest, though at a raised hand from Jon she halted. "Another word and Lord Stark will hear of this." He said sternly brooking no further discussion.

With that final word, the handmaidens went about their work silently and gently, preparing her bath with rose oils from her private collection, hauling in hot water by hand. Either they had forgotten there was a bath in the keep or they did not care. Either way, she dipped into the scalding water without a wince, not giving them the satisfaction of seeing her weakness.

Th handmaidens went about scrubbing the filth from her body, peeling back the layers of grime and decay from her time in the dungeons, while the bastard pulled a chair to sit before her. He observed her cautiously.

"I do not bite, if that is what gives you pause." She said, rolling her shoulders forward, presenting her ample bosom in a sensual manner.

He shifted slightly in his seat, trying to hide the growing spire in his breeches. He failed. "A lioness that does not bite is quite rare, yes?" He said, leaning forward so that his torso covered his ever growing erection, though did nothing to hide the lust in his eyes.

She put a hand to her chest in mock indignation. "Have you still not learned to trust me?" She crooned sweetly, reaching a hand to caress his cheek. "After all we have been through." She added a pout, rubbing his lip with her thumb. He made no move to step away as the handmaidens stared at her, scandalized by her boldness and familiarity with the bastard, though he was only a means to an end.

She removed her hand from his face, bracing herself against the basin's rim and pushing herself out of the water. The bastard's eyes roamed her form with practice disinterest, eventually landing on her sex as he raised a brow in question.

"Are you going to gawk at me all morning?" She asked curtly, a small smirk pulling at her lips.

Before she could ask, he stood from his chair, his erection clearly present, and moved to her wardrobe. He began to through her gowns with clear intent, holding up articles of clothing to the light then in her direction before replacing them in the wardrobe. Before she could give him specific instructions, he returned to the basin where the women were patting her down, a shift and dress folded over one arm.

The dress was one of Lannister Crimson, the bodice embroidered with gold and silver etchings resembling lions heads. It was a gown that she might have chosen for herself, had she been given the opportunity.

He stepped closer to her, handing the garments to the handmaidens before stepping to an appropriate distance. "Would you not prefer to dress me yourself?" She said, crossing her arms seductively, presenting her bosom to him and leaving her sex exposed once more.

He crossed his arms over his broad chest, raising a brow to her in question. "I could call for another handmaiden if you find these lacking in some way." He said with a slight smile, jutting his chin in the direction of the two women waiting for her to unfold her arms.

The lioness smiled cruelly, dropping her arms to her sides, allowing the handmaidens to adorn her in her shift before fastening her into her gown, lacing her in tightly at the breast. They then went about styling her hair in a simple fashion, the strands closest to her face braided behind her head in a sort of crown, while being used as a tie for the remainder of her hair.

After her preparations were completed, the bastard ushered her from the room, assuring her that her necessities would be packed and brought to their ship in due time. He then led her through the keep, arm-in-arm, as they journeyed to the stables, where he wrapped her in an unassuming blue cloak much like his own. He asked the stable-master to bring her a fresh horse, and upon the arrival of her mount, he lifted her atop the unfamiliar beast. He then hopped atop the mount himself, securing her hood over her golden tresses and wrapping his arms about her waist, gripping the reigns.

"Oh! How forward of you." She said, turning her neck to see the bastard's suppressed grin.

"I mean nothing untoward, Your Grace. I merely thought it more prudent to guide you from atop your horse." He returned, though from the stabbing in her lower back, she could tell he was lying.

He spurred their horse in motion and they trotted under the traitors walk unimpeded. They rode through the city mostly unnoticed, as the bastard's men wore no sigil and garbed themselves in modest functional clothing of dark blues and grey. As they trotted along, many women at duty would stop to admire her mount in particular. It was only after the third woman that she notice their gazes were pointed slightly behind her, following her companion.

"Their staring at you." She said, looking back at him, examining his features.

Like his father, his face was long though not quite as stern, his eyes grey, though not the same shade as the honorable Eddard Stark's. His dark hair was curly, much longer than his father's and less tamed. His face had a beauty that was difficult to describe; a sort of rough-hewn beauty. It did not surprise her that women would take interest.

"It happens from time to time, women staring at me." He said after a long moments silence, whispering into her ear. "I try to ignore it for the most part." He sighed in resignation, as though being an attractive, hale young man were such a burden.

She rolled her eyes into the distance, lamenting the excess of wasted youth. "Why not accept their affection?" She whispered over her shoulder, trying to hold back her amusement. "You are a young man and a sellsword, clearly you have their attentions." She said, turning to meet his eyes. "Why not make some bastards of your own?"

His face became a grim mask; nothing like the lighthearted man she saw moments ago and possibly more dour than even Eddard Stark.

They rode in silence for the remainder of their journey, reaching the Mud Gate in complete silence. Upon passing under the gate, their small entourage made their way to the end of the harbor where their ships were stationed. They were easily differentiated from all other vessels in the harbor at a glance; though all varied in size, class and origin, the features that made them legion were unmistakable. Each ship had a beak of valyrian steel, crafted to a fine point to easily breech any other vessel in battle. Every vessel was fitted with large, long-range weapons, similar to crossbows, scattered along the hull. 

The bastard thrust a hand forward, bringing men scattering from the largest of the ships, larger than any she'd ever seen. The ships hull was red, very close to Lannister Crimson, and held twice as many crossbows as the others; one row on the deck and another concealed just below that, with doors to cover them. What shocked her most was the figurehead; the chained form of a wailing woman was depicted on the hull, an anchor protruding from her chest. The vessel gave off an aura of despair and death.

" _The Mephistopheles_ , my flagship and personal hell." The bastard said, clearly noticing her line of sight. "I was once bound beneath the deck of that ship." He continued, seething violently behind her, failing to hold in his emotions. "And now I am its master. How strange this world is."

She could only nod, not knowing what to say to this revelation. From their talks, she knew of his time as a sellsword and his capture and near enslavement, though she never knew of his acquisition of the ship.

Breaking free of her awe, she remembered her objective in seducing Ned Stark's bastard. "So have you decided what to do with me?" She said, setting the stage.

He scratched his beard, debating what information to give away. "You will be given to the silent sisters. That is what Lord Stark has decreed." He pursed his lips, clearly displeased with this.

She capitalized on his doubt. "What do you want?" She asked, leading him closer into her den.

"It is not my choice to make. Lord Stark is my liege and I will follow his orders."

She grinned to herself, relishing how easily he was following her trail. "Is he now?" She asked, facetiously. "You are a sellsword, you have no liege and I remember no contract with Lord Stark being made." She said leaning against him in the saddle, feeling his hardness against her backside, his chest heaving behind her. He shifted behind her, making to leave the mount.

He stepped on the ground, taking her by the waist and hoisting her from the sturdy beast, depositing her on the ground. He began to pace, clenching his jaw fiercely. "What would you have me do?" He wave to her, running a hand through his hair before bringing it down to his waist to fondle the hilt of his dagger.

She smiled inwardly, having nearly claimed her prize. "Your men outnumber your father's by the dozen and possess more skill." She retorted, stepping closer to him. "If you wanted, you could take the city for yourself-" she offered "or another?" She gripped his arm, stopping his excessive pacing. "If you help me take back this city, I would reward you." She said, rubbing his upper arm, feeling the power trapped beneath his skin. "I would make you Warden of The North, Lord of Winterfell." She looked into his eyes, radiating honesty and trust. "I would make you Jon Stark." She said, finishing her opening of negotiations.

She saw the hunger in his eyes, a want for his father's lands and title, for more power than he had ever wielded. "By all the laws of gods and men, Robb comes before me, then Brandon, then Rickon." He said, jerking free of her control.

"All rebels. They cannot be allowed to keep hold of the North. We need a man that can serve our interests." She said, gripping the mass of muscle he called an arm. "If you are that man, then we can reach an accord." She rubbed her hand down the flat of his stomach, her thumb catching on his daggers pommel before her palm caressed his manhood. "This arrangement can be very beneficial for you." She whispered, pulling his shoulders down around her, brushing her lips against his ear.

For several moments, he seemed to contemplate her offer, weighing the pros and cons of betraying his father.

Suddenly, without warning he took hold of her, kissing her hungrily with no regard for the hundreds of men waiting for his next orders. They stood there for a moment battling for dominance and air, pouring passion and heat into one another, the air becoming thin. When he broke away from their embrace, she followed for a moment before regaining her composure. _This is just another form of business_ , she told herself, _a means to an end_. The bastard had the means to get her what she wanted; his men outnumbered his father's in droves, he commanded absolute loyalty from what she saw of his dealings with his crew, and he was young and foolish. All of these were things she could exploit.

He breathed into her mouth, his eyes clouded with lust, his member hard against her belly. "Follow me." He half led half hauled her onto the nearest of his vessels, leading her down into the corridor branching into several small compartments. He spun her in front of him, attacking her lips once more, grabbing at her dress as he backed her into a room at the end of the hall. She gripped his shoulders, steadying herself with his sturdy frame as he savagely pushed up her skirts, ripping her small clothes in one smooth motion. Feeling the telltale heat converge on her sex, she moves a hand to clench his member, earning a whimper of approval.

He removes her hand, gripping it against the wall as he digs further into he with the other, bringing her closer and closer to her release. 

She removes her other hand from his shoulder, slipping it down his side as he continues with his ministrations, not noticing the absence of his other hand on her wrist. It wasn't until her hand caressed his sword belt that she realized something was amiss, for where a dirk should be, she found an empty scabbard. Before she could process what this meant, she felt the cold, familiar grip of a shackle close around her wrist. 

She looked to her wrist, now ensnared above her head in a manacle. Before she could protest, her other hand was jerked upward and clamped in cold iron, wet from her own pleasure.

She looked into the bastard's eyes, glaring as she collected her thoughts. "I thought we had an understanding?" She seethed.

"There was an understanding, aye." He said, his voice harsh like his name, snow. "I understand that you wish me to betray my father, usurp my brother and slay my family." He gripped her face, her essence still coating his hand. "Any other time I may have taken your offer, for I do desire your body and I find you interesting." He paused, his face hovering just above hers, almost touching her flesh. "But you threatened my family, and that I cannot abide." He strapped one last brace around her waist before stepping back and bending down, collecting his discarded dagger.

He walked to the door, eyes forward until he reached the threshold. "I meant it, you know?" He said, turning back to look her in the eye. "You are quite the woman. Westeros is not the place for great women to thrive."

He turned and walked away, her eyes following him until he left her line of sight. She seethed quietly, lamenting her shortsightedness, until she heard commotion above as the ship lurched with the waves.

Through a small window in her cell, she could see the light moving across the walls, evidence of the beginning of her journey to Old Town. She screeched at the walls, struggling against the chains and exhausting her voice in the process.

Had her mind been less occupied, she may have noticed the sun's position, moving across the sky dipping past the horizon. For If she were headed south, the setting sun would not be visible.


	6. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon learns of his mother.

**JON**

He dipped the damp cloth into the basin, watching as blood mixed with water, creating a translucent pink film within the container. The cloth emerged from the water, once white, it had become pink with the blood of his enemies. He proceeded to wipe away the blood of an undetermined amount of City Watchmen, killed in an ambush of their own design.

Earlier in the week, Jon's men had spread word of the transfer of the Queen and her bastards from the Red Keep, possibly to the North. He commanded the story be just vague enough to contain a grain of truth, giving no specifics on the time or date, leaving his enemies few choices but to observe and plot.

When the preparations were done, he led a contingent of fifty of his men, along with five and twenty trusted City Watchmen to lead a carriage through the backroads of the city toward the Mud Gate. On their way, they found themselves trapped by over two-hundred City Watchmen, and to little surprise their allies in the City watch turned their cloaks once more.

Their position was a box of death, fifty men surrounded in a narrow choke-point by fifty or more men on four sides, high rising buildings all around them. Under normal circumstances, this may have been their end, had they not anticipated the betrayal and sudden ambush.

Scattered along adjacent routes were smaller groups, dressed in commoners garbs of different colors and styles, only identifiable by the blue sashes about their middles. Altogether this reserve numbered over two hundred swords, and one hundred bowman and crossbowman along the rooftops. While the swordsmen carved the golden cloaked snakes from either side, the archers rained hell down into the narrow passage, aiming to the center of the masses of golden fabric and armor. The four isolated skirmishes took no more than a few minutes, killing in total two hundred thirty-seven City Watchmen. Near twelve hundred Gold Cloaks dead to date, three hundred sent to the wall, he sighed to himself, lamenting the waste of healthy men, only six or seven hundred available to defend the city. They would need to recruit new watchmen, as well as changing the garbs to something less ostentatious, gold is far too easy to spot, even the blind would be able to feel the shine off their armor. He wipes at the scar across his chest, a mark left by a poorly executed thrust from a lucky watchmen, paid in full.

His cleansing is interrupted by a light tap against his door. He absentmindedly bids the visitor to enter, which he does with trepidation. The man slips his head from behind the door, the head of a direwolf visible on the breast of his gray garbs.

His guest stands in the doorway, staring at Jon as he cleans the blood from his wounded chest. "You have a message for me." He stated as fact, for there was no other reason for a Stark man to approach him, as they had made their feelings for him very clear.

The manservant merely stood there, mouth flapping open and closed, though no sound escaped. He aloud the silence to extend for a few more moments, to the point of incompetence, finding the mans fear of him somewhat insulting.

He sighed in exasperation, tossing the cloth into the basin, startling the manservant. "Words man. I assumed you brought a message from Lord Stark, judging by the sigil sewn there?" He gestures to the blazon, growing more irritated with each breath. "Do you speak?" He spoke slowly, assuming the man was just a simpleton.

"L-lord S-S-Stark has req-req-" He paused, the fear evident on his face. "Asked your presence, m'lord." The man then bowed and scurried out of the room.

Jon seethed quietly, grumbling to himself. "Why did he not say so from the first?" The next words came as a shout, likely heard by the whole wing. "Wasting my bloody time!"

He took a few moments to finish cleaning his face and torso, donning a plain, storm-blue tunic under a ash-grey doublet.

He walked the corridors to the Hand's Tower, attempting to cage the beast within, focusing on the finer parts of his life. My crew, my brothers in arms, he thought, rubbing at his wrists, Arianne. His mind drifted to full breasts and sunbathed skin, to the scent of blood oranges and large brown nipples. Those swaying hips, hiding the greatest treasures of Dorne, possibly all of the Seven Kingdoms.

He hauled himself from those thought, kicking and screaming, as he felt the stiffness in his pants. He fought to relieve the pressure as his father's solar grew closer with each step, passing by the guards posted outside of the Hand's Tower.

Moments later, he arrived at his the Hand's Solar, free from his erection. There were no guards posted on the door, so he stepped forward, hearing the voices inside.

"-say is, is that she would go far in persuading the rest of their party." He heard Martyn say, missing what or who they were speaking about.

"What reason would she have to speak on our behalf?" Father retorted, causing Martyn to giggle.

"There is an interesting history there." He says, receiving no words in return from father. After a long moment, Martyn speaks agin. "It is impolite to eavesdrop." He says, louder than before. It takes a moment for Jon to realize that Martyn was addressing him.

He knocks hastily, stepping inside looking ashamed as Martyn bursts into laughter. "My apologies for my tardiness Lord Stark. I was indisposed." He glared daggers at Martyn, promising retribution later.

Father waved him forward, gesturing to the seat opposite him. "If you would give us a moment?" Father stared at Martyn, gesturing for him to exit.

Martyn acquiesced, giving Jon a slight nod before exiting the room, quietly closing the door behind himself.

The pair sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, Jon waiting for his father to begin, his father waiting for some sort of invitation or sign, as it would seem.

Eventually Jon found himself losing patience, prompting his father with an open question. "Is there news on the realm?" He asked, receiving no answer. "Have the Baratheons sent word?"

His father shook his head, looking into his lap, before staring into the steel that mirrors his own, directing his attention to Jon. "What do you know of Rhaegar Targaryen?" His father asked, taking him by surprise.

Jon must have consumed sand at some point, for his mouth and throat seemed to have dried out. "Not much." He croaked. "He kidnapped and raped your sister, the Lady Lyanna, the love of King Robert, starting the rebellion." His father winced at the details of his sister's ordeal, listening silently to the rest. "He battled on the Trident, where he died by the King's hand."

His father seemed to be battling with some unseen entity, debating his next words. "Not exactly." He said, shifting in his seat. "What you will learn today is known by only two living men, including myself." He began, looking about with caution. "I must tell you of your mother." He continues, releasing a shaky breath. "For this tale-- your birth can only make sense to you if you know who she was." His father's exact words did not escape him. Was.

"My sister Lyanna was a wild spirit." The Lord of Winterfell began. "Even as a toddling babe, she could always find trouble, often including Brandon and myself, and later Benjen." His father continued to stare, gauging his reaction. "I see much of Arya in her, which frightens me more than I can admit." He released another shaky rasp, brushing a tear from his eye with his sleeve.

"This is where it becomes difficult, for I only know what has been shared with me." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "At the tourney of Harrenhal, she competed as a mystery knight, The Kight of the Laughing Tree, or so I was told by Howland Reed. She defended his honor against a group of uncouth squires who decided to pick on the weak." He pawed at the stubble gracing his chin, attempting to delay further dissemination. Ultimately deciding against it, he shifted in his chair. "Her valor caught the eye of your father that day, though it also caught the ire of your grandfather."

Realization began to dawn on him, the path of this story becoming clear. It is not enough, he must say it. "Father, I don't understand." He stood, knocking his chair to the ground as he tried to take in air, finding the vacuum in the room suddenly lacking. He pulled at the laces of his leathers, trying to draw desperately needed breath, with no substantial results.

"Jon!" Father said, his Lords voice coming forth. "Calm yourself. You must keep your wits about you." He began to breath, following the motions of his father's hands, the Lord of Winterfell mimicking the motions of breathing with his hands.

Jon nods his head for his father to continue, with Lord Stark taking the opportunity. "The war was at an end; Robert had his throne, Rhaegar was dead and the loyalists had bent the knee." He paused, seeming to choke on his next words. "He had his damnable Iron Chair, yet my sister was nowhere to be found!" He sobbed, a single tear dropping down his face. Jon could not recall more than a handful of times when Lord Stark had actually shed tears, being more of the quiet brooding type. "I received word from Ashara Dayne telling me where I could find my sister. It was a small keep in the Red Mountains of Dorne, belonging to House Dayne."

He breathed another trembling breath, his hands quaking on the arms of his chair. "After lifting the siege at Stoms End, myself and a trusted few headed to the location that she had described." He paused again, a vacant expression covering his face. "None bothered to ask why they were jailing a young girl, or why it took three of them to do so. No one asked why they were in Dorne, the home of the Princess Elia Martell.

"We just fought, hacking away at one another while your mother suffered and bled. We slew the men who swore an oath to protect you, who did their duty." Tear were visibly falling, the dam of emotions his father had been holding breached. "While we fought she died, good northerners died, your sworn swords died!"

He made a full stop, clasping his hands before him in a bridge, his elbows mounted on the table as he massaged his temples with his thumbs. It took Jon a while to notice that he too was crying, the slow tingle of salty tears having escaped his notice until just this moment.

He made to approach the man who he called father, stepping around the desk and kneeling before him, laying his head on his good leg, his tears soaking the fabric of his breeches. Lord Stark placed a hand on his head, rubbing his scalp softly before continuing with his tale. "When Howland and I arrived in her chamber, she was on deaths door. She made us both swear on our lives that we would protect you; with her last breath she begged her big brother for the life of her son." He continued stroking his hair, Jon feeling more like a boy than a warrior and commander of men. "I saw your eyes, so much like mine own, like Brandon's and Benjen's. Like Lya's. But more importantly, your hair is the same shade of brown as hers, close to mine." His fingers flexed in Jon's hair, pausing in their motion. "We took the letters left by Elia of Dorne, giving her consent. We took the marriage documents, including witness statements and letters of attestation from Lya and Rhaegar and each of the Kingsguard. We also took her marriage cloak. When we took the ancestral greatsword of House Dayne to Starfall, we asked that they keep the documents safe for us, lest the day come when we would need it again."

That part perplexed him slightly, though his head was becoming more clouded by the second. "Marriage cloaks and documents?" He said, raising his head from his father's knee.

"Yes. Their marriage was legal and binding, performed before a heart tree then later before a Septon." He said, grasping Jon's cheek. "You are no bastard of a prince, but a trueborn Targaryen, and one with a greater claim than any."

He had to laugh at that, otherwise the weight of these implications would swallow him. "I look nothing like a dragon."

"Neither did the Prince of Dragonflies." He said. "Robert had a Targaryen grandmother and yet his is the look of a Baratheon." _That was part of the reason Cersei's children were such a mystery_. Father did not say this, but that was where his point naturally led. "I'm telling you this because the realm cannot unite under another." He continued. "House Tyrell has no love for Stannis, House Lannister will fight for the bastard's false claim, and Dorne will side with neither, as they hate both." His face took on a more solemn stare, if at all possible. "You are the only option, otherwise I would not think to break my oath to your mother."

Jon nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "If I did accept, how would we go about this." He looked about the room. "These letters you have; will they be enough."

Father scratches his beard. "Perhaps, though I believe the Dornish can be brought to heel with the proper motivation. Mace Tyrell wants his daughter as queen. The North and the Riverlands will raise their banners for you, half of the river lords were Targaryen supporters to begin with." He clenched his jaw in contemplation. "Many Reach Lord will follow you, just as the Crownlands and the houses of the Narrow Sea will. That leaves most of the Stormlands, half of the Reach's fighting force and the Westerlands that are our enemies."

Jon had already begun making battle calculations. "How do we go about getting this information to these lords?" 

"I already sent them out." The Lord of Winterfell said, letting loose a rare smile. "Martyn told me you could be somewhat indecisive, so we took the liberty of crafting the letters for you." He at least had the decency to look ashamed of his actions. "They were sent days ago. There is no turning back, with the accept ion of Dorne."

He wondered if Martyn had told him anything of a more personal nature. "Why so?" He said slowly, gauging his father's reaction.

"All of our evidence hedges on the information in Starfall. If they wanted to destroy this information, that would be the best bet of doing so." He said, provoking a sigh of relief. "Before we sent out a single letter, we had a ship sailing for Starfall. Once there, they will secure the information and send a raven to Sunspear." Father gripped his shoulder, massaging it affectionately. "I'm not forcing you to take the crown, though it would save many lives and possibly unit the realms. I am just providing the option."

"I know father." _Will he still accept me as a son_. He looked into his uncle's eyes, and he must have sensed his apprehension.

"I will not begrudge you that, my boy." He said, offering another soft squeeze. "Now, I'm sure you have other matters to attend to." He said, letting go of his once-son. He gestured for the door, smiling lightly to reassure him.

Jon pulled himself together, rubbing his palms down his face before carding his fingers through his hair. "Aye. Quite the busy day indeed." He bows at the waist, stepping backward towards the door before turning to leave.

He has every intention of heading for his rooms, though his subconscious navigation clearly thinks otherwise. He lets his mind roam as he makes his way to where he believes are his quarters. It is not until the scent of piss and shit hits him harder than usual, that he truly looks at his surroundings, recognizing the entrance to the Black Cells.


	7. Two Ways Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I split the chapter with Jon and Barristan, flushing out the Barristan The Bold, prison encounter and giving an opportunity to tell his narrative.

**BARRISTAN**

 

The aged knight sits in his cell, lamenting his most recent failure in his duty. As a member of the Kingsguard, his entire occupation revolves around protecting his King, a task which seems to find new and more creative ways of thwarting him. He took the oath when the white cloak meant something more, though it now meant little more than a political favor or a reward for Lannister loyalists and oath breakers.

He rattles his chain against the cold, damp floor, attempting to disrupt the thoughts plaguing his idle mind. He finds the action useless, the memories flood as quickly as before; images of Rhaegar, the Prince who showed so much promise, only to fall short of his expectations. He thinks of Aerys who, as a young man, seemed to have the makings of a great King, losing his way after the Defiance of Duskendale. 

Then there was Robert, strong and bold and proud, a natural leader of men and adept battle commander. He had the charisma and love of the people, though more important was the uncanny ability to turn enemies into allies. And after tearing the realm asunder, the man did nothing but whore and drink, managing to get a child on nearly every woman but his wife, allowing the Kingslayer's bastard's to slip by everyone undetected for years.

The thought of _Ser_ Jaime Lannister only increases his silent rage, causing him to strain against his chains. "Fuck!" He shouts, breaking his usually calm demeanor he prides himself on. Calm yourself, he thinks to himself as he forces his breaths to slow. You are a knight of the Kingsguard, he tells himself. Were. You were a knight of the Kingsguard. His indulgence in self-loathing is interrupted by the sound of light footsteps, splashing on wet, coarse stone. The sound moves closer, competing with the rough scraping of his binds against the surface of his dungeon floor.

The thumping of boots stops before his cell, the bright torch light robbing him of his sight, as he looks upon the imposing figure of his Prince, just as he last saw him.

His eyes adjust, revealing his Prince to be not but the bastard of Lord Eddard Stark, the sellsword who dueled him in the throne room, killing Ser Mandon Moore.

He jerked at his chains, the memory of Ser Mandon's cold, dead eyes stoking his ire. "Have you come here to ridicule me?" He spat, refusing to play their little game.

The flames blocked his view, though he thought he saw the bastard smirk. "That was not my intention. No." He said wearily, almost in a whisper. "You seem to have fallen on hard times Ser." The bastard goaded.

Unable to resist the urge, Barristan retorted harshly. "I might say the same of you boy."

To his credit, the bastard did not seem offended. "I've had a--" He paused, looking for the words. "I've had a troubling day, of sorts." He continued. "Knowing too much can be a burden?"

Barristan nodded, the concept being a recurring theme in his life. "So if you have not come to ridicule me, then why are you here?"

At his words, the bastard deposits his torch in a sconce parallel to the bars of his cell, allowing the light to shine on him. He then looks around, making to grab a wobbly stool from a far corner and placing it before Barristan's cell, before sitting to face the aged knight.

He smooths out his breeches, looking int the elder man's eyes. "I wish to know of Rhaegar Targaryen." He says, his face completely calm, showing no sign of falsehood.

For some reason, this causes Barristan to laugh. The bastard seems to be annoyed by his reaction, shifting uncomfortably on his perch. Good.

"Why would I tell you?" He responded. "For that matter, why are you asking me?" He found himself genuinely curious, as this was nowhere near the questions he had expected.

"Well, you are the only man alive in the Capitol that knew Rhaegar Targaryen." He admitted. "If I ask anyone else, I will only hear Robert Baratheon. If I ask Lord Stark, he will say the Prince was a good man in a bad situation, and handled it poorly." He flexed his hand, scratching at his forearm. "You actually knew the man, were on the Kingsguard for his entire life."

Barristan saw the logic in his words. "That answers part of my question." He said, his voice cold and detached. "Now why should I tell you?"

The boy shrugged. "Don't old men like to tell stories?" He said, and Barristan could feel the scowl pulling at his jaw. He found himself disliking this boy more and more as he spoke. The boy seemed to register his mood, for he raised his hands in surrender. "Apologies Lord Commander." He said, with a level of sincerity. "If you tell me about Prince Rhaegar, I will tell you a story of him that even you do not know."

Barristan tilted his head, finding his curiosity piqued. "What would you wish to know?"

The boy shrugged. "It is your choice Ser." He said, prompting Barristan with open palms.

Barristan sighed. "Everyone knew of Rhaegar as a fighter, a knight ordained in the seven oils. Though that was part of his identity, it was not all of him." He let out a shuddering sigh, letting slip what had been festering beneath the surface for years. "As a boy- well- even as a man, Rhaegar was prone to melancholy, having been born during the tragedy at Summerhall, believing that somehow he was cursed. This made him a very morbid individual, always in his books and avoiding contact with those he did not know as a child." He wondered why he agreed to this, but the words kept flowing forth. "He took on the martial pursuits, having believed that he was the Prince That Was Promised, taking up the sword and lance in preparation for his destiny. So yes, he was an accomplished fighter, but his true passion was music." He felt a ghost of a smile stretch across his face. "He loved to sing and play his harp. Many times, myself and the Prince would disguise ourselves, walk about the wealthier parts of the city and play for coin." He smiled, leaning his head back in satisfaction. For days, he had been focusing on the negative, not realizing the positives. _The dragons are not all dead he_ , he told himself, _Rhaella had a daughter and a second son_.

"I pride myself on my musical talents." The boy said, making his presence known once more. "As a sellsword, I learned the art of the lute and the harp to pass the time." Barristan wondered why the boy was sharing this. Yes, they had been talking about Rhaegar's love of music, but that had nothing to do with some northern sellsword.

"A bargain is a bargain good Ser. I shall tell you of a story about Rhaegar Targaryen that you do not know, for it is a secret." He leans in closer to the bars. "This is more about his _legacy_ than his life."

And with that, the bastard began. "There were once four siblings, as close as sibling could be, not counting Lannisters. There were two older brothers, a sister and a little brother.

"Now the eldest brother was brash and bold, the second brother quiet and dutiful, the little sister was wild and impulsive and the youngest was just along for the fun. Now these siblings each grew up, living in castles abroad, their father fostering good will with his banner men and fellow great lords, spending years apart from one another, only to converge at a grand tourney-"

"I know this story." Barristan interupted, teeth clenched at his wasted time. "Rhaegar crowns the little sister over his wife. The little sister is taken by Rhaegar. The eldest brother goes to the Capitol seeking his sister, he is arrested and must wait for his father to come get him. Both father and son are murdered by Aerys II Targaryen. He called for the heads of the second son and his foster brother who, at the time, was the girls betrothed. Robert killed Rhaegar in single combat, won the war and took the throne." He jerked at his chains once more, frustration clear in his voice. "What have you told me that I did not know before you were born, boy?"

This should have flushed the bastard, though it had an opposite effect, bringing a smirk to his face. "Why Lord Commander, I've barley said anything." He said, the pompous grin still plastered across his face. "Allow me to continue where you left off, and make some minor alterations." He sighed, looking pensive for a moment. "Alright. So, the daughter absconded with the Prince after repeatedly asking her father to break her betrothal to her brother's foster brother. She went so far as to plead with her brother to sway their father. Finding no other choice, when the Prince offered a way out, she took it. Now we get to the end of the war, where this part about her consenting to the arrangement is key. Now, the second brother became the first brother with the eldest and the father." He continued onward, as though he had never been interrupted. "After taking the throne, his foster brother, commands him to go forth and lift the siege of his family's home, by the prince's armies." He tilts his head, emphasizing the point. "The brother accepts, disenchanted by the man he once knew and the horrors carried out in his name." Barristan remembers the small bodies of the Prince and Princess, wrapped in Lannister Crimson to hid the color of the blood. Seeing the sour face of the youth before him, he can tell he feels the same, though his sadness seems too deep for someone who was not present.

"After he lifts the siege, he heads to a tower in Dorne, where he believes his sister is being held captive, on the word of the woman the realms believe he dishonored." The boy shifts, clearly uncomfortable with what comes next. "Upon arriving at the tower, the party of seven meets the guard of three, entering into a conflict that would leave eight dead. Without a thought, the second son enters the tower, expecting to find his sister in chains or mutilated, though what he finds is worse." The bastard shifts forward, the story having taken ahold of him. "You see, a prisoner or a mutilated sister would have been easier, his anger at the Prince justified and he rides off with his baby sister with a clean conscience, knowing he did the right thing, that the Dragons were mad and their reign had to end."

He takes in a shuddering breath, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "No." He chews his lip, letting the word hang in the musky air. "What he found was a babe at the breast, a dying sister and a different story than the realm believed." Without warning the boy stands, pacing before the bars wildly. "Now he has a choice to make: betray his friend who he fought so hard to put onto the throne, by declaring for his sisters child with his enemy." Stopping in his tracks, he turns to Barristan. "Or he could hide the boy; there was a war, rife with camp followers and nights in castles with noble women, any man could fall victim to the charms of a woman. A babe only takes one night of passion." He stepped back, resting upon his stool once more. "So he took the boy as his bastard, left his foster brother as King, and the realm was none the wiser. The boy grew to manhood, though there were some struggles. No life is perfect, but it is a life he live all the same." 

He leaned in closer, allowing his face to truly be seen. "So, Lord Commander. Did you find my tale worth your time?"

Barristan ground his teeth, finding this tale a tad bit too fantastical. "So you would claim to be the bastard son of a dead man instead of the man who raised you, all for the sake of a crown?" He spits in disgust. "What proof have you?"

"I have none, though Lord Stark has plenty from what he has told me." He said, waving his hand in a circular motion. "Signed documents from each member of the Kingsguard, comforting letters from Princess Elia, witness statements from the marriage of my father and mother, and lastly a Targaryen wedding marriage cloak." The bastard leaned his head back, breathing in deeply. "It is all on its way here, to be used as proof of my claim, should I choose."

The last statement caught him off guard. " _Should_ you choose?" He asked incredulously.

The boy scoffed. "I have no desire to live an unhappy life as the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. I'm a sellsword. I enjoy simplicity." He sighed deeply once more, chuckling harshly. "What use have I of gilded cages and uncomfortable, pointed chairs? All of that aside, the crown is in dire financial trouble."

He stared at the boy, the conundrum of a young warrior. "Then give it up. Let the throne pass to Stannis."

The boy seemed somewhat hesitant to speak, opening his mouth several times before finally deciding to voice his inhibitions. "The Tyrells are declaring for Lord Renly, along with most of the Stormlands." He said with a frown. "The Westerlands declare for the Kingslayer's bastard. The Riverlands and the North would likely side with Lord Stark, and propping me up as the son of Rhaegar would go far in uniting the Riverlands."

Barristan thought on this, the figures having been clearly thought out. "So you mean to sacrifice yourself on the throne of blades for the good of the realm?" He asked, genuinely saddened for Rhaegar's supposed son.

"What choice do I have? If I decline, thousands will die. If I agree, the might of three kingdoms may frighten the others into line." He shrugged in resignation, taking the posture of a broken man.

Looking at the young man before him, Barristan wondered which of them was truly a prisoner.

Without warning, the boy jumped from his seat, wiping at his eyes with his sleeves. "Well Ser Barristan, I have duties to attend to, but I shall return to release you before evenfall on the morrow." He said, gripping the torch from the sconce beside them, his hand accidentally touching the flame. Barristan's face must have shown his concern, for the boy looked to his hand and back to Barristan, smiling as though they were sharing a private joke.

Before he could protest, the boy wrapped his hand around the oil soaked flame of the torch, his eyes never leaving the aged knight as his last word to the man rang loud and clear: "Fire and Blood, Ser Barristan. Fire and Blood."

And like that, he was gone, leaving Barristan with much to think about, his mind swimming once more with the horrors of past monarchs and the potential they all possessed.

 


	8. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some military stuff happens, some magical stuff happens, some love/hate/vengeful grudge stuff happens. I dunno something something dark side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mathis Rowan-3 Days after meeting in the Hand's Solar  
> Randyll Tarly- 4 Days after meeting in the Hand's Solar  
> Arianne Martell- 2 Weeks after meeting in the Hand's Solar  
> (Remember, they have to get the docs from Starfall.)

**RANDYLL TARLY**

 

The orders had been received; they were to match the forces of the Reach to Bitterbridge in support of Renly Baratheon as their new King, though his elder brother Stannis held the title by all the rights of gods and men. He is the eldest surviving brother of the King and Robert sired no legitimate children of his own issue. Despite this, Lord Mace Tyrell has decide to support the younger brother out of personal preference.

Randyll considered himself an honorable man; he fought for the dragon as was his duty, and when they fell he bent the knee as his liege lord bid him, but there is no honor in choosing your king because he is manipulable. How could he continue to follow a weak man whose words sway with the wind. Though he must follow him, for he swore an oath to the Lord Paramount of the Reach

In that moment there was a knock to the door of his private solar, breaking into his thoughts and causing his jaw to tighten. I strictly asked not to be disturbed, he thought as he moved from his desk, walking toward the door with tightened muscles and clenched fists, intent on throttling the individual who dare interrupt him.

Reaching the door, he threw it open, intent on removing it from its hinge and finding satisfaction as it hit the wall with a loud thwack. Unfortunately his satisfaction lessened when he realized that the interruption was from his lady wife. "Melessa?" He voiced gruffly, trying to hide his embarrassment and shame.

She raised a brow in question. "I found a terrified steward outside of your solar, who was asked to deliver a message by our equally terrified maester." She removed a slip of parchment from the folds of her skirts. "It is from the Regent, Eddard Stark." She informed him nervously.

He took the parchment from his wife's hand gently, moving back to his desk as his Melessa stood stationary. Unrolling the parchment as he sat, he looked upon it in shock, swiping his hand down his beard before reading it aloud in a near whisper.

 

_Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill_

_I have received word of the unrest in the kingdoms due to the crisis of succession. I understand that your liege lord has declared for Renly Baratheon, who has no claim to the throne as long as Stannis Baratheon lives. I have written you to offer an alternative to both._

_I recall you as being a stalwart supporter of House Targaryen. When asked to bend the knee, you did your duty. I ask you again to take up the cause of the Dragons, the cause of my nephew Aemon Targaryen._

_Lord Eddard Stark,_  
_Warden of the North,_  
_Regent to His Grace Aemon Targaryen I_

 

He placed the parchment on his desk, looking to his wife whose face was twisted in confusion. "What does this mean?" She inquired shaking her head. "We cannot just defy House Tyrell. They are our liege lords."

He looked to his wife with eyes of steel. "And by all the laws of gods and men King Stannis or even this Aemon character are in line before Lord Renly and yet our liege has decided to declare for a pretender." He seethed at his wife before calming himself. "The realms need stability and it cannot be found with these Baratheon pretenders. We swore an oath, older than my father, or his father." He tossed the missive into the flames, watching as the parchment smoked and writhed before lighting ablaze, blackening and turning to ash. "An oath I intend to renew."

 

 

**Mathis Rowan**

 

The Lord of Golden Grove, after mustering a token force to march on Bitterbridge departed his keep, once again to take part in a war to advance the Fat Flower's station. Of all of the other Reach Lords, there was only one other who could understand his apprehension. Mathis Rowan and Randyll Tarly had spent their best years fighting in wars and commanding men, only for their over puffed liege lord to take credit for their accomplishments.

Now he was off to fight in another war for the sake of Mace Tyrell's ego. This time it would be for the Prancing Stag, a pawn of the Lord Paramount of the Reach. 

Not only did he bend the knee to the Stag, he would now take up arms with another Baratheon Usurper. At least Stannis has the claim. Renly had nothing but the Tyrell's support and a name as the second son of the ruling house.

So trapped in his thoughts, he did not notice the figure riding hard from the back of the column, from Golden Grove.

"Lord Rowan!" The man said brandishing a sheet of parchment, clearly out of breath.

Mathis held up a hand signaling the halt of his procession. "Has Lord Tyrell sent word?" The boy shook his head, handing the message to his liege lord.

Mathis ripped the parchment from his hand hastily, eager to return to his march. He hurriedly unrolled the parchment, skimming over the sigil stamped into the wax, recognizing it as that of Lord Eddard Stark.

He began to read the parcel.

 

_Lord Mathis Rowan of Golden Grove_

_I have received word of the unrest in the kingdoms due to the crisis of succession. I understand that your liege lord has declared for Renly Baratheon, who has no claim to the throne as long as Stannis Baratheon lives. I have written you to offer an alternative to both._

_I recall you as being a stalwart supporter of House Targaryen. When asked to bend the knee, you did your duty. I ask you again to take up the cause of the Dragons, the cause of my nephew Aemon Targaryen._

_Lord Eddard Stark,_  
_Warden of the North,_  
_Regent to His Grace Aemon Targaryen I_

 

Mathis read the letter again, slower and more concise, yet his eyes could not register what he was seeing. He read it once more before handing it to his son, who read it, a disbelieving look adorning his face. "Father, what does this mean?" The boy whispered harshly. "This cannot be true. The dragons are dead; Tywin Lannister and King Robert saw to that."

Mathis Rowan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, weighing his options. If he joined this campaign and emerged victorious there would be spoils aplenty for his family, though losing would likely mean the end of his line and life.

Could he bow his head and follow the Prancing Stag? Could he sell his pride for the favor of the Dandy King?

With that thought he made his mind, shifting his procession northeast toward Kings Landing. "We shall certify that this Aemon Targaryen really is the son of The Silver Prince." He looked to his son, his face a mask of stone over his emotions. "If he is proven true we shall take our chances with the dragons and wolves."

His son looked to him, a questioning look on his face. "And should he prove false?"

He looked back with fury in his eyes. "The by the Seven and te Old Gods beyond counting, he shall rue this day." 

And with that thought they rode forward into uncertainty.

 

 

 

**JON**

 

In the six days, since he learned of his true parentage, his life had become complicated to an uncomfortable degree. On the one hand, he had been busy helping Lord Stark keep control of the city, holding the prisoners through several escape attempts and interrogating Lord Baelish; on the other, he and Martyn had been doing as much research as they could using the journal from The Spider as a guide.

They had been working diligently, putting together the pieces for some sort ritual found in the pages which seemed to fit his situation. The section of the book, marked by Varys along with others, described the markings on his arm in startling detail, down to the tint of the veins and the encounter with the eggs. The pages depicted some sort of machinery made of valyrian steel, runes of unknown origin etched into the metal, maybe some dialect of Ancient Valyrian symbols. The pages described the ritual, but several pages were missing, and some of the words were stricken. Though the implication of a cure was clear.

Due to the need of reworked valyrian steel, they were forced to aquifer the the help of Tohbo Mott, the swindler of The Street of Steel. Using much of the weaponry salvaged from the ruins of Valyria, including all of the spears and a few great swords, they were able to scrounge together enough to build the ridiculously large mechanism. Not trusting Mott with so much of a rare substance, Jon placed two guards on him at all times, with instructions to watch for wandering hands; his prices are already robbery, there is no need to give him the opportunity to physically steal from them.

All other preparations having been sorted out days before, Jon is merely left waiting on the smith; one last piece and his life can return to simplicity, to the open ocean and adventure, where status matters little.

He is awakened from his musings by a rapping at his door. With bated breath, Jon rises to his feet, traveling across the floor and easing the door open. On the other side is a smiling Martyn, with a slip in his hand.

"It is done." Is all he says before Jon rushes from the room, walking briskly toward the appointed location of the ceremony. His arm is planted at his side, pulsing with what he hopes is anticipation.

Jon and Martyn arrive at the stable, their horses already saddled and waiting along with an already mounted Rhade. Usually Lothor and Theo would ride out as well, unfortunately they were currently on business for Lord Stark with a small contingent of men in an unknown location, according to Martyn. Jon found it odd that Lord Stark had taken to using his Spymaster, with his disdain of all things sneaky and dishonorable; though it can be expected after being betrayed by those you trusted most in a city of liars and cutthroats in pretty clothes.

Jon's mind continued to wander as they rode for the designated spot on the beach, stopping only when the structure came into view.

Beautiful was not the word for this-- thing. It was a marvel yes; and in a certain light it was quite majestic, but in a harsh cruel way. The shape of the structure is similar to that of a wine decanter: slimming at the tip and neck, belling slightly further down then tapering into a less pronounce point near the bottom, a cradle-like container meant for housing the eggs was bellow the structure, three prongs jutted out from the sides, keeping the monstrosity steady. The entire structure was placed above a hastily built fire pit, a pyre readily built beneath it for the purposes of the ritual. Around the structure stood a platform, the base and support of it far enough from the pitch and oil to avoid catching fire, while the platform itself stood less than an arms reach away from the pointed spire in the center. Near the outer ring of the platform sat a trunk, housing the key to removing his affliction.

Jon stepped towards the trunk, heart pounding out of his chest, when he felt a hand on his arm. Looking back into the eyes of Martyn Flowers, uncertain and petrified. "You can wait, we still have time." He said, his voice trembling but his hand stayed firm. "We need more time, more information. There was much left out, too much we don't understand." His first mate wrung his hands vigorously.

Jon reached out to grip the nape of Martyn's neck. "If I die, it was how I lived. Taking chances and living dangerously." He pressed his forehead to Martyn's, a sign of affection. "I would not trade my life for anything." He said, pulling Martyn closer. "If I should parish today, take care of our brothers." He looked into Martyn's eyes, his grip on his neck tightening. "You remember where my cache is hidden?" Martyn nods. "Good."

Jon turns back to the trunk unlatching the silver claw shaped clasps, revealing a heavy sheet of brown rough spun wool. He fled his hand over the fabric with trepidation, remembering the last time he touched the eggs. Steeling his nerves, he slowly pulls away the sheet, exposing the collection of eggs to the salty spray from the sea breeze. He stood there for a moment, merely admiring the eggs with their different shapes and colors and textures: green and red swirls, silver freckled with purple, black with harsh red etchings. As he looked on in wonder and awe, he could not help the drifting of his gaze to the far corner to his left; almost imperceptible was an egg of pure black, nay, the closer he looked it was an egg of black washed in dark blue vines. He was enraptured with this majestic object, so beautiful and weird and wonderful.

He picked the egg from the trunk along with two others, just for good measure, turning to the structure, until something else caught his eye; an egg of pure white like snow, smaller than the other than the others by half. It was, until this moment, obscured by the dark egg and only seen by the grace of the gods. Balancing the other three eggs over in one arm, he scooped the miniature egg into his hand, before moving toward the monstrosity.

He stepped between the beams of the raised platform, moving toward the center of the construct, careful to avoid the pitch at the and oil beneath the receptacle in the center as he laid the eggs down. He reached into his pocket, grabbing the flint inside, striking it before moving away, carefully stepping out of the framework of the platform.

He swiftly climbed the scaffolding, anxious to get this over with and afraid that he may back out if given the opportunity. He stepped onto the platform, looking back to Martyn and Rhade, nodding their heads In a gesture of encouragement way.

Jon stepped to the edge of the platform, rolling up his sleeve to reveal the mark. He looked to the needle designated in the schematic, contemplating the multitude of ways this could go wrong, then without preamble he placed his placed his forearm above the pointed spire. "Just one prick and you're done. Just one prick and you're done." He repeated this several times, as if the more he said it the more true the statement would become.

Just when he had decided that he only needed one arm, his unaffected arm slammed down on the other, skewering it into the spire with an excruciating pain. His blood began to drip down the construct, a bright mixture of light pink, almost white which burned as it made its way through his veins like liquid fire. The throbbing in his arm began to lessen as the foul liquid expelled itself from his body, dripping down the monstrous work of metal, seeping into the runes and falling towards the eggs. He believed the worst to be over as the pain subsided, until the first drop of blood hit one of the eggs, and with a bone shattering _crunch_ , a light shone upward from the pyre. _No, not a light, a fire_ , a small voice in his head told him. _Crunch_.

Suddenly pain tore through his body, nearly dropping him instantly. Surely he would have collapsed right then if not for the pike impaled in his arm holding him in position. Worst of all was the pain; it seemed as if he were burning though his skin did not blacken, it blistered and reddened in the flame.  _Crunch_. He heard the sound again increasing his panic.

He continued to attempt an escape from his hell, tugging at his arm nearly ripping it off in his pursuit of freedom. Damn his stupidity for leaving his sword behind, for it would certainly help in relieving him of this troublesome appendage.

He could vaguely hear the shouts of Rhade and Martyn along with several others, making him wonder how long he had been stuck. He turned back seeing the form of Lord Stark, vaguely realizing the panic in his face as her turned to shout at Martyn, then turned to shout at him.

Then suddenly he felt the heat lessen and eventually subside, as he collapsed on the quickly crumbling dais, burned near to ash by what should have been a simple ritual. He clutched his burnt arm, pink and scalding, forcing himself to crawl to the edge of the platform, tumbling over the side onto the beach. He felt strong arms wrapping around him, looking up into the moistened eyes of his silent Dothraki brother. "You stupid, reckless fool!" He heard Lord Stark from somewhere above him.

"I-" He tried to speak but his voice abandoned him, throat dry from the heat.

Lord Stark knelt in front of him, despite his injury never healing full. "I made a promise to your mother to protect you!" He screamed, his eyes red and wet from unshed tears. "You could have died up there! And then what?! Lyanna's sacrifice would be for naught but ashes and bones!"

"I'm sorry father." He let his tears go as Lord Stark clutched his face to his his doublet, shielding his tears. They sat there for what seemed like an eternity, content to listen to the waves lap against the beach.

Feeling strong enough to walk, Jon let Rhade haul him to his feet, while he clutched his burned arm in his other hand. Their party started to depart from the structure when they heard a rustling sound, like the moving of debris.

Jon turned around swiftly, falling from Rhade's grip and looking back toward the pyre. He was certain that he heard shuffling within the remains of the great pyre, heard the shifting of ashes. He climbed to his feet shakily, making his way back into the outrageous monstrosity which still stood firm, ignoring the warnings of Lord Stark and Martyn.

As he moved closer to the center, he heard strange sounds barley audible to him, like gurgling babes or the chirping of birds. He rushed into the debris, his eyes stinging with smoke as he crawled thought the remains of the pitch and oil, still warm despite the cool ocean air. He sifted through the ash and sand trying to locate the source of this noise, he heard it again to his left, correcting his course to the what he hoped was direction of the sound.

As he got closer, he realized that the sound was moving about in the debris. Moving further inside, his eye caught the swift and clumsy movement of something the size of the average pup, then another. They seemed to be running through the ruins of the pyre, chasing one another; he shuffled closer slightly giving form to the shades he had seen before: one was lavender of skin with silver undertones in its scales, matching its silver underbelly, while the other was of orange of scale, red undertones peppered throughout its scales to accompany the red of its underbelly.

Suddenly both creatures stopped to look at him, reptilian orange eyes staring at him as the tilted their head in unison, as if contemplating him somehow; he quickly shook his head, finding the idea absurd. Only then, as he shook his head, catching glimpses of his surroundings through rapidly blinking eyes, did he notice sapphires pure and beautiful in the debris. Then they vanished, only for a moment, returning just as quickly; Jon stumbled further into the pyre, toward the sapphires barely noticing the other two creatures trailing him.

Reaching the location of the blue orbs, he was taken aback to see the form of a black creature, so like the others though it seemed to melt into the darkness, waiting for him. As he got closer, the creature began to shift, shaking the ash from its skin. Jon put out his hand to the creature as a sign of good faith, stopping just before he reached its crown. To his surprise, the creature craned its reptilian neck pushing its head into his hand, a somewhat comforting gesture given the situation. _How is this even possible_ , he thought to himself, _this was only supposed to rid me of that damnable mark._ Then he thought of the Spider, with all of his secrecy and those missing pages, which likely held key information regarding the waking of dragons and the risk to his life. _Damn him._ Where did he even find that information; dragons have been extinct for near a century and no one has hatched a living dragon egg let alone fossils, though not for lack of trying of course. There had been many-

Jon's thoughts were interrupted by more rustling from the black dragon, as it shifted violently, its head jostling against his hand. Jon looked down, noticing that the it had a second head; he shuffled back slightly as a fourth creature, smaller than the others emerged, this one with piercing red eyes and soot covered scales. He reached out, rubbing the scales clearing some of the ash, freeing scales of the purest white, like snows in the North.

He moved forward with trepidation, taking the white into one had and placing it on his shoulder, then grabbing the black and carrying it in the crook of his unburned arm. He walked out of the remains of the ritual, carrying the products of his blood magic, the two others chasing one another around his legs.

He looked to Lord Stark, a questioning look adorning his face. "Are those--" he gasped out before dropping off, letting his jaw slacken.

"Dragons?" Martyn breathed out the rest of the sentiment, stepping forward.

Jon smiled weakly. "Aye, I guess they are." He said, feeling lightheaded as Rhade rushed forward to steady him.

He saw Lord Stark breathe heavily. "And how will we explain these to the court."

Jon shrugged, smiling weakly before everything went black, bringing him to dreams of dragons and blue skies, of Fire and Blood **.**

 

 

**ARIANNE**

The princess of Dorne made her way to her father's solar at a slowly; if Doran thought she would be at his beck and call he was sorely mistaken. If he intended to betroth her to another senile lord of lower birth, he could suffer in silence for all the good it did him.

If she could only choose her betrothal this could have all been resolved; she would choose a man of her status, a Willas Tyrell or Edmure Tully would do if not for their inheritance of kingdoms in their own rights. If not them, she would happily marry a man from Dorne, a highlord of note. The thought of a noble bastard who would gain no titles or lands crossed her mind, a Daemon Sand or Rodrik Flowers-

Her thoughts rested on the bastard of The Arbor, with his eyes of beaten steel and long dark tresses, framing a long beautiful face. Stollen kisses and sleepless nights rolling in silk sheets, his strong and lean frame pressed against, around and inside of her.

She could see herself wedded to a man of his kind, though her father would never give her to a simple merchant and a bastard at that. Rodrik would always be a childish fantasy.

She pushed her thoughts of beautiful bastards to the side of her mind, straightening her back and lifting her chin as she came upon her father's solar.

Not bothering to knock or announce her presence, she pushed the doors of her Doran's solar open, floating to the chaise across from her father, ignoring the stares of the three men in the room.

After a long moment she glanced to the other occupants, noting the serious looks that adorned their faces. Oberyn seemed furious, his body clearly tight, his pupils dilated and his nostrils flared. Doran, in contrast to his brother seemed to be imitating stone, his features unchanging, his emotions hidden behind his stone mask. Areo Hotah, for his part seemed as always, bored and waiting for his job to begin.

Doran looked to her with weary eyes and something akin to sorrow, pulling a sheet of parchment from his lap. He handed it to Oberyn, who in turn placed it on the table between the three of them, close enough for Arianne to reach.  
With trepidation, she advanced on the parcel, carefully unraveling it in order to read its content.

 

_Doran Martell Prince of Dorne_

_By now you have likely heard of the death of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Due to the fact that Robert has no trueborn children of his own issue, as Lord Protector of the Realm, I have put forth Aemon of Houses Targaryen and Stark as the rightful heir._

_He is the trueborn son of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark Targaryen, who married in the traditional polygamous style of Targaryens, with the consent of Princess Elia._

_I hope that you can see passed the slight done to your sister, as we both lost family to the war. I only ask that you support your kin, by virtue of Mariah Martell._

_We both have the common goal of bringing justice to the realm and forcing House Lannister to pay their debts._

_Lord Eddard Stark,_  
Warden of the North,  
Regent to His Grace Aemon Targaryen I

 

She read the message once more, to be certain she had not misunderstood, then turning to the trio of men. "Is this a sick jest?" She fumed, understanding Oberyn's righteous fury. "He wishes for us to bow to the Bastard of the Dragon Whore?"

Doran looked to her with something akin to resigned pity. "He offers justice in exchange for fealty. Justice for our sister."

"The son of the Wolf Whore can not give us justice. We must take it for Elia." Oberyn fumed, his first words since Arianne arrived being spoken. "We can destroy the Lannisters and Gregor Clegane on our own."

"And how would we do that?" Doran inquired, his mask shifting slightly to show has agitation. "We are too few and they are too many, but with the Riverlands and the North there is a chance at justice." Doran looks to Oberyn with steel in his eyes, Oberyn pleading something of his brother. "Beyond that it is what Elia wanted-"

"Doran, leave it-" Oberyn interrupted only for Doran to raise a hand, cutting him off.

"Father... What do you mean? What would Elia have wanted?" She interjected, thoroughly confused by the fork their conversation had taken.

Doran rubbed his hands across his lap, the pressure in the room building, despite the open air circulating through the room. "Elia gave us instructions that the girl should go unharmed, that she was with child and that child would legitimate. After the war, they would announce it openly and he would be the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms by way of Rhaegar's second marriage."

Arianne was taken aback by this, raging silently for a moment before she openly fumed. "Why was I not told this? I am your heir, I need to know these things."

"You were not told this because all parties involved are dead and their secret was thought to have died with them." Doran clench his fists on the arm rests of his chair. "Though it seems that Elia had a plan despite our wishes or protests." In that moment, Doran seemed to be resigned to his fate. "And Oberyn knows that our other plans have fallen through, just as much as I."

Oberyn begins to engage in the conversation once more, setting aside his wine. "So what if Viserys died, we can still use the girl." Arianne was delivered another blow, it sounded as if they were now speaking of the deposed prince.

"And what of her husband the the horse lord? Would he just give her to us willingly? That outcome seems most unlikely." Her father looked to her, noticing that she was still in the room.

Without preamble her father went through the marriage pact that she supposedly had with Viserys Targaryen for Dorne's support, also informing her about his death in the Dothraki Sea due to his increasing madness. Then out of sudden realization she, she let out a startled gasp. "This is why you have turned down every proposal offered to you?"

Doran let a ghost of a smile pass his lips, breaking his mask completely. "Yes sweetling, I meant to make you a queen and Quentyn would rule Dorne in your stead." Her father gave an audible, sorrowful sigh. "Unfortunately it was not meant to be, but now that we have a tangible chance at justice, we cannot simply let it pass by. This Aemon Targaryen is offering us the support of at least two other kingdoms. What other claimants are offering the same." With that her father pulled out another sheet of parchment, handing it to Oberyn once more, who handed it to her. "This arrived with the other message."

Arianne in all haste and excitement broke the seal on the letter.

 

_Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne_

_It is with great joy that I write this letter to you, requesting your presence in Kings Landing._

_When last we met, you were in a compromising situation with a friend of mine. With that being said our mutual friend would very much enjoy your presence in the Dornish procession expected at Kings Landing. Though time has passed, feelings for you are still strong within him. All will be explained when you arrive to the Capitol._

_With Admiration, Martyn Flowers  
First Mate to Rodrik Flowers_

She felt her heart quicken as she clutched the letter to her breast, feeling the familiar flutter of her stomach. She began thinking about what this could mean; had House Redwyne allied with this Aemon Targaryen. Was her lover in the Capitol waiting for her, would he be disappointed if she did not answer his call.

After a few moments lost in her thoughts, she remembered that she was not alone, looking to the faces around the room waiting for an answer. "It is from a bastard of House Redwyne, he is in the Capitol at the moment." She sighed, realizing that she had to argue in favor of going to Kings Landing. "This would mean that at least some of the Reach Lords have declared for this Aemon Targaryen Character. I would suggest we hear him out." Her father looked to her in surprise for a moment, before nodding in agreement. She sighed, gathering up the courage to speak to the other matter. "This letter also requests that I go personally before the new King."

The disbelief was evident on each of their faces, including that of Areo Hotah, as she braced herself for the argument that was surely forthcoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A comment was posted about backstory. Just a heads up I'm done with betas for the next 5 chapters here and the first three of my prequel to this. Now I just need to do complete drafts.


	9. Of Monsters and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Stark receives a gentleman caller. Jon gets some news.

Sitting before the large oaken desk in his solar, The Kingless Hand could only lament the failures of his predecessor, Jon Arryn. To his credit, the Lord Protector of The Vale had managed the position for near on six and ten years, wading through a den of ravenous, treacherous lions, though that may have been his greatest shortcoming: the inability to see past his own honor, even in the face of destruction. A trait that Ned shared with his foster father, for better and worse.

As he looked over the blood-stained personal ledgers of the former Master of Coin, he could not help but feel equally unprepared. Had it not been for Lya's boy, he would've died in that Throne Room, or worse. Like Brandon, he thought, like father. He shuddered at the thought of Robb being deceived into coming to his aid, dying in this den of liars and thieves.

He flexed his hand, fighting away the tingle of disuse as he sat, looking over the same page for what felt like a day. 

Since breaking his fast with Arya and Sansa, who still harbored resentment for her confinement, he had been holed up in his solar, reviewing the information that Martyn Flowers had provided him on Littlefinger's finances.

From what he had deciphered from the Master of Coin's personal ledgers, the man seems to be asset rich, having little in ways of physical currency. Looking over the first tome, most of his profits made from his brothels as well as the money he pilfered from the crown, a substantial sum to be sure, had been used to provide loans to several noble houses. For the most part, he seemed to be living off of the interest, purchasing new pleasure houses throughout all seven kingdoms, in addition to a couple less salacious establishments.

Ned turned the page, running his finger down a column exhibiting several large payments, made for some rather large deposits of grain, in addition to other dried goods. He stood abruptly from his seat, knocking over the wine that his steward left for him.

"Damn it all!" He hissed, moving the ledgers to avoid the expanding puddle on his desk.

Before he can form his next thought, there is a hard knock at the door.

Ned breaths deeply, running a hand through his hair before bidding his steward to enter. The man stood in the doorway for a moment, examining the small pool of wine, stewing on the stone floor. He made to exit, likely to get one of his underlings to clear it up.

"Leave it." Lord Stark said, beckoning the man forward. "You have word for me?" He moved around the desk, bracing his hand against the wooden surface until he felt comfortable with the pressure. The steward rushed forward to aid him, receiving a light shove for his troubles. "I must shoulder my own weight to become stronger." He explained, patiently. "Do you have something for me?"

The steward nodded sheepishly. "A small host has entered the city, begging permission to enter the keep." He informed. "They wear green with a golden symbol in the center."

Ned carded his fingers through his mane, wondering if the Tyrells had changed their minds. "How many in their party?" He asked.

"Mayhaps less than fifty?" He said, furrowing his brow in thought.

Without another word, Ned began to limp from the room, fighting with great pain to compensate for his injury, attempting to exude strength.

The steward put forth a hand. "My Lord." He began, pulling a scrap of parchment from his tunic. "Word from the Spider." He continued handing the parchment to Ned.

He took hold of the slip, gesturing to the man to leave. "Have them enter the keep. No more than five and ten. Tell Lord Tyrell to meet me in the Small Council chamber." He said stepping back to lean against his desk once more. "Send someone to find Jon. Bring him to the Council Chambers as well." He shouted, before the steward could exit.

He unrolled the parchment, reading over the words and immediately lamenting his decision to send those men to their deaths. He quickly crumples the parchment, stuffing the grim message into his doublet before exiting his solar.

Ned hastened through the Red Keep, the wound in his leg aching and throbbing, matching the pounding in his head. He thought of what he would tell Jon. Ever since learning of his parentage, learning of the fate of his siblings, his mind had been plagued with a singular focus: slaying Tywin Lannister and his two dogs.

He promised the boy that he had sent men to capture the Mountain That Rides, to bring him to justice.

His thoughts were disrupted by the oaken door approaching him. He straightened his doublet and tunic, making himself presentable for the Lord Paramount of The Reach.

Thinking himself presentable enough, he shoved the door open, looking upon the form of not Mace Tyrell. From his doublet and his age, he named the man Lord Mathis Rowan of Golden Grove. He attempted to keep his disappointment from his face. "Lord Rowan, it is a pleasure to host you." He said gauging the man's reaction. "I had thought you would send word?"

"Lord Stark," he began, looking upon him in disinterest. "I have traveled all this way because you have made quite a serious claim, in the name of one you once claimed as your bastard." He said, looking about the room. "I have come to assess the validity of those claims before I choose to support him."

Ned hesitated before speaking, choosing what information to give. "I have sent men to retrieve the documentation." He decides. "It would have been reckless to bring any proof of his claim into the Red Keep, especially under Lannister rule." He continues. "There is ample-"

A knock at the door interrupts him. Emerging from the other side, a steward steps forward with trepidation, clearly delivering unpleasant news. "Lord Stark. I found Jon Snow-" the man pursed his lips. "He refuses to come to the Council Chambers." He continued, as though each word were another knife. "He told me 'if Lord Stark wishes to parade me about, he can meet me in the Gardens.' Then h continued to spar with Lady Arya."

Damn his stubbornness, Ned thought, watching Lord Mathis for any change, until the Lord of Golden Grove rose from his place. "Shall we see the gardens of the Red Keep, Lord Stark?" He asked, gesturing towards the door.

Finding no reason to rebuke the suggestion, Ned stands to lead him out. They walk in uncomfortable silence, neither being particularly fond of the other, having fought on opposite sides of a war.

After walking the gardens for what felt like an eternity, the ringing of steel alerted the pair to the presence of the would-be-king and his little cousin.

Stepping from behind a row of rectangular shrubbery, the scene of two figures locked in a dance of steel emerged. It was like watching Brandon and Lya in the yard once more, though Jon moved with far more grace than his elder brother ever did.

In a moment of impatience, Arya overextended her thrust, missing Jon entirely and leaving herself at his mercy. Jon, playing the role of arms master, put a hand to the center of Arya's back, shoving her into a rather unfortunate topiary of a green lion.

"You're still overextending yourself, little sister." He barked, laughter intermingling with his words of instruction. "You're small in size, so it's important for you to be faster and more importantly, smarter and calmer." He said, walking forward to help dislodge the small girl from the lion's belly. He grabbed the band of her breeches, yanking her free, the twigs and leaves still lodged in her hair.

"That's not fair." She shouted, shoving Jon away. "You're bigger and stronger."

He sighed. "When I first started my life as a sellsword, I constantly faced men who were larger and stronger." He explained. "At first I made it through with luck and speed of hand. But as time progressed I began to notice a pattern; the smaller men who tried to compete with strength always died, while the men who used cunning usually prevailed." He took in a shuddering breath. "If you are having trouble with the opponent or the field, change it. There is no shame in regrouping and coming at the problem another way." He said, reaching a hand forward to squeeze her shoulder.

"Well said Your Grace." He heard Rowan speak from behind him. "A lesson that most do not learn until it is too late." He stepped forward, tilting his head in deference.

Jon's eyes instantly narrowed. "And who might you be?"

To his credit, Rowan did not seem to take offense to this slight. "Lord Mathis Rowan of Golden Grove, one of the principle houses of the Reach, and fervent supporter of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen." He said. "And of yourself, should you prove worthy of my support."

Jon huffed audibly, looking to Arya, handing her his tourney sword, whispering something to her. With all of the speed and grace of a wolf, she darted off toward the castle, two men in dark grey and storm blue struggling to keep up.

Turning back to them, Jon seemed to be having an internal debate. "I never agreed to be King, Lord Stark." He said. "To rule is a large burden. I'd be forsaking the sea and my crew. I would have to marry for political gain, not love." _Not quite_ , Ned thought, though he thought better of voicing such notions. "My freedom will be stripped away." He sighed harshly, running a hand trough his hair, releasing it from its bind.

"The realm will unite for none other than you." He said, for what felt like the hundredth time. "The Reach declares for Renly, the Stormlands declare for both he and Stannis. The Riverlands are in turmoil and will ally with the North and the Vale because of blood ties and the West declares for the Kingslayer's bastard." He exhaled, continuing to make his case. "Most of the realms that rose in rebellion, did so against Aerys and had no personal enmity towards your father. And with my sister's sworn words he will be absolved of any crimes." He stepped forward, grabbing the back of Jon's neck, forcing him to look him in the eye. "You can set the realm to rights, and right Robert's wrongs." The words began to flow too quickly, tripping him. "As we speak the Mountain-" He broke off, realizing his misstep too late.

Jon jerked free, the shock evident on his face. "The Mountain is doing what?!" He asked, vitriol seething from each word. Before he could respond, Jon redirected his statement. "You told me that you sent men to bring that beast to heel." He said, his chest heaving. "I stayed here because you said he was being pursued. What happened to his assailants?"

Ned could see this was not going well. "Jon. Calm yourself." He said, reaching out only to have Jon recede further. "Thoughts of vengeance will bring you nothing, son."

At that Jon's eyes reflected cold steel, so like his mother, like his grandfather. "Vengeance?" He seethed. "This is not vengeance." He continued, pausing to look in the direction of the Red Keep. "Vengeance would be walking into the dungeons and slitting The Hound's throat." He began to pace, running a hand through the ruined lion. "Then killing any kin he has left. Then I would kill each and every person bearing the name Lannister and Lorch, other than Lord Tywin and _Ser_ Amory, stabbing each and every girl--" he paused, suddenly knitting his brows in confusion. "Was it half a hundred times? No matter. I would kill them. Slowly. Painfully." He said, his eyes beginning to well. "Then I would rape their mothers and kill their brothers, even if they are babes at the breast." He swiped at his eyes. "Then! And only then, would I kill them, most likely by torture." He ended his statement with that, wiping at the steadily flowing tears.

"But I shall not do that." He amended, looking Ned in the eye once more. "I will administer justice to those three men and Ser Jaime Lannister. They alone shall pay for their crimes." He ran a hand through his hair. "It is a debt that I owe to my mother and Princess Elia."

With that he turned his back on them, gesturing to the closest sellsword, giving the man very precise instructions, judging by the harshness of his hand gestures. The man rushed away, clutching a sheet of parchment in his hand, as Jon strode back to them.

"What are you planning, Jon." He asked, genuinely concerned by the look in his eyes.

"I plan to do what The Fatass on the throne should've done years ago." He said, his fists flexing in anger. "I'm going to hunt down that dog and mount his head on a pike."

Panic immediately flooded him once more. "I won't let you go off and kill yourself for some misplaced sense of vengeance." He said, grabbing his arm.

"I am not in the North; your word is not law here." He said, shaking him away. "And if you did not wish me to take justice for my kin, you told me the wrong story. You should've named me as Ashara Dayne's bastard."

He searched for a way to make him stay. To keep him safe. To fulfill his oath. "I am Hand of the King!" He said, latching on to that small hope. "You are subject to my rule, and I can have you arrested and await the arrival of either Baratheon brother." He said, ignoring the logical fallacy that he might have Jon's men arrest their captain.

"By all that you have told me, I am the true King." He said, finally accepting his role, if only to be a disagreeable little shit. "I can have you replaced by this fine gentleman here." He said, his eyes flickering to Lord Rowan, who had been mostly unnoticed until this point. "But I won't. All I ask is that you let me hunt down this butcher. I can live without killing Lord Tywin for the moment, but I cannot allow that animal to continue ravaging my domains." He said, stepping much closer than necessary, almost touching noses. "If you grant me that--" he paused, closing his eyes for a long moment. "I will wear any crown you request."

Ned locked eyes with his nephew, steel bearing down on steel, as he made a decision to break his vow for the good of the realm.


	10. Before I Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final preparations before Jon leaves to hunt down The Mountain.  
> You get a glimpse at the different missions that each member of the small family has been assigned.

**Arya**

 

Racing through the corridors of the Red Keep, Arya heard each footfall echoing off of the walls of the nearly vacant castle. Where a single moon prior, the sound of her hastening may have been lost in the intrigues of scheming lords, the recent skirmishes about the city had and the imprisonment of severla Lannister men left the castle somewhat bare.

While some found the vacancy unnerving, Arya found it liberating. There were no queens or ladies telling her that breeches were not proper attire for high born girls, or telling her that chasing cats is filthy. The emptiness also her current ordeal much easier, allowing her to clearly hear the scraping of claws on stone as she darted into Maegor's Holdfast, passing the sellswords posted on the bridge.

For nearly the entire morning, since returning from breaking her fast, Arya had been hunting the shining black hatchling through the corridors of the Red Keep, collecting bruises as a memento. At each turn, the elusive lizard seemed to lead her into a new trap; another table, another wall, another steep flight of stairs. Since becoming the keeper of Jon's dragons, she spent most of her days collecting bruises. _Every hurt is a lesson_ , she thought quietly, stalking her prey. _And every lesson makes you better_.

The results of her training could be seen, not so much in her physical strength or ability, but in her speed and concentration. Since beginning her training with Syrio and later with Jon, she has steadily become faster and more observant, taking in the behavior of those around her, especially Jon.

Since the skirmish in the Throne Room, her brother had taken to giving her private lessons with the sword. The main purpose of this, he said, was to make certain that she could face a real opponent intent on killing her. With that in mind, Jon came at her with that in mind, battering her with his dull sword, leaving bruises oevr every inch of her body. Their lessons were of great value, as while he was lean and quick, Jon also struck with great force and was unpredictable, making him an all-around warrior.

Aside from her sessions with Jon and Syrio, most of her time was spent caring for her newly assigned charges: a clutch of fledgling dragons. This duty included feeding the creatures and keeping them out of harms way, which included chasing them around the keep. Especially the large black one.

Just a bit closer, she thought, approaching another corner in pursuit of the little beastie. Rounding the corner, Arya collides with a short, stocky man, garbed in the grays and blues of Jon's crew. She shuffles her feet, dancing around the man, her eyes catching sight of the beast scurrying toward the corridor holding the King's Chambers.

The beast was within a hand's length now, spurring her to move faster, sacrificing safety and balance for a chance at victory.

As if feeling her presence, the dragon makes a hard left, darting into the King's Solar.

"I've got you!" She shouts, making a hard left of her own, entering the chamber on unsteady feet. Her field of vision becomes clear just long enough to spot the dragon, swiftly darting beneath a makeshift table.

Too fast, her mind rushes as the hastily fabricated table looms closer, her body too unbalanced to stop. She crashes through the horizontal beam, scattering parchment and goblets, the clatter of metal alerting her to the steel dashed across the ground.

She groans audibly gripping her sides, the pain in her torso and nose almost unbearable. She could feel a searing line on her stomach, where the edge of the top beam made contact, overshadowing the pain in her thighs from the jagged steel she fell upon.

Fighting her aches, Arya opens her eyes, scanning the room for the foul creature. All around the room, boots shuffle and scuffle across the floor hastily, dividing her attention from her search. So divided is her attention, she overlooked the pair of worn leather boots approaching her. The feet stop just before reaching her face.

She looks up, taking in the face of her elder brother, his grey eyes staring at the demon lizard. "What's wrong little guy?" Jon crooned, more for her sake than the dragon's. "Did the mean little girl scare you?" He says, jostling the evil creature lightly. To her surprise, the dragon merely nuzzled closer to him, purring softly. Jon grabs one of its talons lightly, waving it in the air. "Well you showed her, didn't you?" He contiues, finally acknowledging her presence with a smile.

Arya rolls over, groaning in pain, though she wouldn't admit it. "Arse!" She tried to yell, but it came out as a rasp, shortly followed by a cough.

Jon hoists the beast under one arm, putting the other hand to his chest, a scandalized expression on his face. "Young lady!" He said, in mock outrage. "I should call your Septa." He continued.

Arya rolled onto her belly, placing her hands beneath her battered form, preparing to raise herself. She felt a tug on the back of her training doublet. Before any protest could be made, a strong hand lifted her from the ground, causing Arya to grunt at the force on her belly.

The moment she found her feet, she turned sharply, swinging wildly through the air. Her fist met with nothing but space, Jon having moved himself from within her reach, his free hand hoisted in the air in a gesture of surrender.

"Peace, sister." He said, stepping closer to her, bending slightly at the waist to deposit the fledgling dragon into her arms.

The little beastie squirmed in her arms, fitfully scratching at her leathers in an attempt to burrow deeper, its tiny claws digging into the skin beneath her jerkin. She looked down into it's dark blue eyes, reliving the days when Nymeria was small enough to hold. Apprehensively, she reached into her pocket, pulling free a length of boiled leather. Arya extended it to the baby dragon, watching in amusement as the small creature took to the material with zeal.

After a few moments, the pressure on the leather lessened, replaced by a different pressure on her shoulder soon after. "You seem to be handling your task well, sister." The words draw her attention to Jon, an uncharacteristically sad smile adorning his face as he observes his pet. "He likes you." He continues, lowering a gloved hand to the dragon's mouth, allowing him to chew on the leather. "I suppose I made the proper choice to care for them?"

She hears a cough from her side, deeper into the King's Solar. The siblings turn in the direction of the noise, taking note of the strange man standing next to Jon's desk. With his thin frame and bent back, the man seems somewhat sickly. His thin, brown, greasy hair is caked against his head by sweat. A crooked nose rest just beneath, marsh green eyes. Thin, chapped lips cover small rounded teeth, similar to worn pebbles. "Captain Commander." He says, clearing his throat once more, taking a few steps forward. With the curve of his back, he is only slightly taller than her and vastly shorter than Jon. "About the lances from Master Tohbo?" He asks, clearly addressing a conversation they were having before she entered.

Running a hand through his hair, Jon ground his teeth. "We had an agreement." He seethes. "Changing the terms of a deal after you have received payment is in very bad faith." Jon said, stepping around his desk and pulling back his chair. "Twelve lances and and eight balista bolts." He continues, gripping the edges of his desk. "Tell Mott that he will keep to the schedule that we agreed upon or I will come to claim his head myself." He finished, taking his seat as Ser Barristan fell into position behind him.

"I will see what I can do, Captain." The man said, preparing to sweep into a bow. Jon waves for the man to stand, then gestures for him to make his exit. He closes the door behind himself.

Arya listens as the man's uneven gait disappears down the corridor, waiting for sound to become entirely inaudible.

"Lady Arya." The voice of Ser Barristan rang from behind Jon, drawing her attention back to the pair of warriors. "How was your merry chase?" He asked, eliciting a small chuckle from his king.

She glared pointedly at her brother, contemplating using his own gift against him. "It's not funny!" She barked, causing Jon to laugh even louder, nearly toppling him from his chair. Frustrated, Arya rips her boot from her foot, flinging it across the solar, nearly hitting Jon. _If not for his speed, I might have hit him_ , she thinks as the leather boot sails over his chair, caussing him to laugh harder.

"I surrender!" Jon shouted, still caught in thr throes of laughter. "But, how was your chase?" He inquires, retaking his seat and gesturing for her to take the one of the chairs to the other side of the desk. "Did the hatchling lead you astray?" He questions, smirking slightly.

"Of all your dragons, he is the most troublesome." She said, massaging her aching side. "Every time I open the door, he runs away. I think he's trying to find you?" She says, moving her hand to the dragons crown.

Placing him on the desk, Balerion immediately scampers across the surface, stopping just before reaching Jon. "You might be right about that." He says with a smile, watching as the hatchling sniffs at the desk, licking the space where Jon once rest his arms. Without warning, Balerion leaps into Jon's lap, startling the King of The Seven Realms and his Lord Commander both. After the initial shock abates, the trio descends into a fit of laughter as the dragon begins to bite at Jon's fine clothing.

Watching the interaction, Arya is reminded of her time with Nymeria, before coming south. The memories are so powerful, threatening to overwhelm the girl of nine years.

"Are you unwell Lady Arya?" Ser Barristan inquires, breaking Jon from his merriment. She looks to the knight in confusion, promting him to elaborate. "You're crying." He says, stepping forward with a length of cloth, meant to be a handkerchief.

Arya instead wipes her eyes with her sleeve. "I'm sorry." Jon says. "I know you miss your direwolf." He continues, shifting uneasily in his chair. "When I get to the Riverlands, I'll keep on the lookout for her." He continues, reaching across the desk to take her hand.

She smiles at her brother, squeezing his two forefingers.

Behind her, the door creaks open, ushering the sound of several pairs of footsteps. "For future reference, I am wholeheartedly against this course of action." She hears Martyn say from the entrance as she turns around.

Beneath the archway are three of the largest men she has ever seen; two are unfamiliar to her, though the last she knows all too well.

"Your objection has been noted, Martyn." Jon retorts, holding her to her seat with a hirm hand. "Sandor Clegane." He announces, leaning back against his desk, his hand still firmly on her shoulder. "I have need of a man like you."

The Hound threshes harshly, attempting to shake off the men holding him in place. Finding his efforts wasted against the pair of larger men, Sandor settles for coughing up a sizable amount of phlem which he then spits at Jon's feet. "Go fuck yourself." The scarred man retorts, before attempting to turn. "Now let me go back to my cell and sleep in peace." He demands.

The men to either side of him jerk him harshly, one of whom delivers a solid blow to his stomach, crumpling the massive man to the ground.

"Was that entirely necessary?" Jon questions, to which the offender to shruggs hs shoulders unrepentantly. "What was I-" Jon began to say, until a flash of black darted from the desk,taking up an aggressive stance before the kneeling Sandor. Balerion began to roar at kneeling form of the massive warrior, though his voice came out as more of a chirp.

The hound lifts his face, taking stock of the small beast before him before Arya could rush forward to collect him. Swooping in to take up the hatchling, she barely noticed the massive form of The Hound scurrying away from a dragon no larger than the palace dogs.

"What in all the seven hells is that thing?" Following his line of sight, everyone in the room looked to Arya and Balerion.

She scowls to the massive brute, clutching the hatchling closer to her chest. "This is Balerion." She offers as an explanation.

Jon huffs his disapproval. "It's name is not Balerion, you shameless copycat." He says, turning to her.

"Is too!" She shouts, waving Balerion in his face. "You told me to take care of them, so I get to name them!"

Jon snorts in derision. "When did that become a rule." He asks.

She opens her mouth to speak, though she is quickly silenced by Martyn. "Children!" He shouts, forcing them both to focus on him. "We have adult business to attend to, so if you would kindly table the discussion of dragon names for a later date." He admonished, giving his best impression of a septa.

"Fair enough." Jon responds from her side, taking a few steps forward to crouch before the still terrified Sandor Clegane. "How much do you dislike your brother?" He says.

The Hound's face darkened as he took the meaning of Jon's words. "Aye, I hate my brother." He replies, shifting forward on his knees. "But I'm no kinslayer." He continued, attempting to rise to his feet, only to be stopped by Jon's men.

"Of course not." Jon responds as he rises to his full height, taking a step backward. "I plan to kill Ser Gregor myself, though I may need you to kill the others." He proceeds, moving toward the far corner of the solar. He takes hold of a shrouded object, tall and lean, slipping the covering from it, to reveal a long spear.

The entire shaft was fashioned of castle forged steel, standing a full head taller than Jon himself, though that was not the most amazing feature of the weapon. At the tip of each end stood a blade standard length for a spear, though it was made of something much more: Valyrian steel. "And I intend to do it with this." He concludes, displaying the weapon to The Hound. "Now that you know I have dragons, you know that it is a matter of time before I defeat the Lannister forces." He resumes. "I have Lord Tywin's bastard grandchildren. I have his daughter. And I have knights from nearly every Westerland house." Jon proceeds to point the spear at the massive beast of a man. "I will kill everyone named Lannister in the Seven Kingdoms if that is what it takes, but I will have order." Taking one final step forward, Jon looks down to the kneeling man. "I would prefer it if you fought beside me, but I can add yours to the pile of corpses if need be."

With that Jon gestures for The Hound to be taken away. "Think about my offer for the day." He says as The Hound is hauled to his feet. "I will need an answer by midday on the morrow."

Having concluded his conversation with Jon, The Hound was taken away by his massive handlers, shouting obscenities about Jon and his men and their mothers, until his voice eventually faded.

As a long silence took hold of the room, the four inhabitants drank in the gravity of what had just transpired.

"Are you sure about this, Your Grace?" Ser Barristan questions, breaking the mood. "I would feel more comfortable if you took me with you." He continues, playing his role as the Lord Commander.

Jon smiles, looking into the face of his only healthy Kingsguard. "With Ser Arys injured and the lack of other Kingsguard members, it is your duty to protect the Royal family, and that is where I need you." He responds. "Besides, I will be surrounded by my own men."

"Forgive my skeptisism, Your Grace, but less than two hundred men is not a fighting force." Ser Barristan retorts.

"Not the way knights and fieldhands fight." Jon returns with a smile. "We move swiftly and stealthily." He continues, gesturing to Martyn. "We are all veterans of hundreds of battles, proficient with the sword, the spear and the longbow." Jon rises from his seat, unsheathing his sword and slashing at his first officer, which Martyn blocks, using a small dagger at his side. "We are, all of us, professional warriors." He sheaths his sword, taking a step toward the aged knight. "We will endure. Though it means nothing if you do not bring our princess home." He concludes, clapping Ser Barristan on the shoulder. For a moment, the two men stared at one another, a King and his guard.

"So am I to just guard the homestead and care for the children then?" Martyn interjected, disrupting the shared moment between them.

" _The Howl_ and _The Crow_ should be here within days and _The Dauntless_ and _The Narada_ will be here within the fortnight." Jon returns, peering over his shoulder. "You will hardly suffer in my absence, with the addition of more than three thousand men added to the me brought by Lords Tarly and Rowan."

For some reason, this caused Martyn Flowers to scowl. "Reacher Lords." The bastard hissed, berating his own people.

"Will it be a problem working with your cousin's bannermen, Martyn?" Jon asked with a dangerous edge to his voice.

Though he seems somewhat perturbed by the idea of working with the two lords, Martyn only shook his head. "As a member of the King's inner circle, I guess it is unavoidable, dealing with undesirables." He returns, continuing to shake his head as it dips lower into his chest. "In for a penny, in for a dragon, I guess." He says, snorting with derision.

"Something like that." Jon says, taking his seat at the desk once more, lowering his head onto the oaken surface, clearly daunted by his first week true week as King.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A basic redo of the original meeting chapter with Robb and co.  
> I felt that pushing back their meeting would fit more with the timeline of events for my story, as well as give the perspective of Cat on this exchange.

**THE MOTHER**

A commotion roused her from her sleep, forcing her to whip the few handmaidens she had thought to employ into a frenzy.

Shouts erupt from the grounds outside, causing the women to tremble as they scamper around the small room within the Gatehouse Tower, fitfully preparing the Lady Catelyn of House Stark to venture beyond the drab walls of her quarters. The shouting continues, growing louder and more widely dispersed as the last laces on her bodice are fastened.

Quickly throwing a cloak about her shoulders, Catelyn departs her chamber, turning back at the last moment to address her handmaidens. "You will be confined her until we sort out the commotion below." She declares, noting the panicked looks on their faces. "It is for your protection. Prepare my things for our the departure of the army." She commands, turning on her heel and marching from the room.

In the scant corridor, she takes in the flustered form of Robb, fidgeting with his clothing as he stomps in her direction, clearly heading to address the commotion. "What has happened?" She asks him before he reaches her, falling into step beside him as he hastens down the stairs of the ancient keep, taking hold of her arm to steady her descent. "What have you heard?" She persists.

Robb merely shakes his head, his auburn curls dancing about his brows. "Just that there has been an enemy scout found." He responds, slowing his gait as they reach the lowest level of the Gatehouse Tower. "He was caught by some Karstark men, but that is all I know. There is no mention of others." He continues, using the time to catch his breath before he convenes his council.

She looks to his side, then back from whence they came, taking note of the distinct lack of massive beasts. "Where is Greywind?" She asks, concern creeping into her mind. Though she was somewhat skeptical about keeping the beasts near her children, they had proven to be more than useful in several dangerous situations, be it Arya's Nymeria or Bran's Summer. Catelyn had slowly become more accepting of the creatures role in her children's lives.

"I saw him out last night." Robb returns, completely halting his advance toward the small hall, turning to her. "The white wolf was spotted near the edges of the encampment and Greywind went with him. To where, the gods only know." He concludes.

Sparing no other words, Robb steps into the entrance hall of the Gatehouse Tower, where the Lords Umber and Karstark are assembled with their sons, as well as several armed men in their employ. As with the rest of the tower, the entrance hall is squat and square, the ceiling barely elevated enough to host Lord Umber and his son, though they seemed to bend their necks either way. In width, the space was barely enough to accomidate the number of men that stood within it, measuring no more than two average feasting tables on each side.

For a moment, Catelyn fails to comprehend the reason for all of the commotion, the crowd so densely packed she is hardpressed to see beyond their broad shoulders. The men at arms make way for their temporary liege lord, bringing the spectacle before them into view.

In the center of the crowd of soldiers, a man with close cropped golden hair rests on his knees with his hands concealed behind his back. Slumped the ground as he is, Catelyn can still see the taut muscle beneath his blood-spattered leathers, denoting his well muscled body. The man is dress unreasonably for the cool northern snow, instead dressed in a long coat of dark blue wool and a boiled leather jerkin with blood spattering his clothing.

"Lord Stark!" The Greatjon bellows, finally taking notice of their presence at the edge of the hall. He steps forward, shifting some sort of weapon from his hand to his underarm as he extends the previously occupied paw to Robb, engulfing her son's hand. "Lord Karstarks boys found this one skulkin' about outside their encampment." He said, gesturing to the kneeling man who's focus now rested upon them with a strange intensity. "He was trying pummel his way out of here when my boy and I found him." He continues allowing a toothy grin to escape his beard. "Gave those Karstark boys a real lesson in modesty." He barked, loosing a hearty laugh despite the wry looks of contempt marring the faces of Rickard Karstark and his sons.

While there did not seem to be any perminant damage among the Karstark brood, each boy looks to have been through a raucous tavern brawl. Between the three, she could easily make out several blackened eyes, two bloody noses and several missing teeth, making it obvious to all that they had seen the worst of the fight.

"How many men was it?" Robb asked.

Catelyn looked to her eldest, taking note of the confusion on his face. Looking back to the crowd of men, several of whom were pointing swords or spears at their prisoner, she realized that there were no other intruders present.

Finally understanding the question Robb has just posed, Lord Umber breaks into another fit of raucous laughter, slamming his meaty paw on Robb's back more than once. "It was only the one." he bellows. "Though it might have been an army lookin' at this sorry lot." He said gesturing to the assembly of men. It was only then Catelyn realized that beneath their hoods and furs, several of the men at arms had some sort of bruise denoting their involvement in his apprehension. "The boy didn't even draw his sword." Lord Umber continues, gripping the hilt of the sword that is tucked beneath his massive arm.

Pulling the blade free, revealing the rippling pattern of valyrian steel to all in attendance. "A fine sword for a mere scout?" Robb poses, glaring at the man pointedly for a short moment. "I have only ever seen _Ice_  and one other like it." He continues, relieving Lord Umber of the spell forged blade.

"Careful with that." A voice sounds from the middle of the crowd, bringing a hush over the host of northmen. All eyes in the small hall turn to the prisoner, still on his knees in enemy territory. "I'll be needing that back in a moment." On his knees in the midst of his enemy, the young Lannister scout seems almost bored with the challenge presented before him.

Completely sheathing the valyrian steel greatsword and taking hold of the shoulder strap attached to the scabbard, Robb steps forward while keeping a fair distance between himself and his captive. "How did you come across such a fine blade?" He inquires, slinging the massive weapon over his back. Scraping against the cold stone, the weapon is nearly as tall as the heir to Winterfell, denoting a vast difference in size between the two men. "Did you steal it from someone?"

The man snorts in derision, writhing in a strange fit of laughter. She looks to Robb, then to the men scattered about the room, many of whom currently have weapons brandished toward the excessively jovial prisoner. The one thing all of the men in the room have in common, despite differences in status and wealth, in the look of confusion at a man who may have seen one-too-many battle field injuries.

Suddenly and without warning, the prisoner springs to his feet, leaving the rope that was used to bind him neatly piled on the floor. Within the span of a single moment, several of Catelyn's greatest fears began to play out just before her eyes.

In the time it takes to draw a single breath, the man who was once their prisoner becomes the captor, having placed a knife to Robb's throat.

At his full height the man stood nearly a head taller than Robb, maybe more. "To answer your question," He says, taking hold of his greatsword with his free hand. "This sword was a gift from my captain for my years of loyal service." He responds, flourishing his weapon. "I am going to lower my knife from your throat." He says, dropping the tone of his voice to a near whisper. "Now, when I do, I would appeciate it if, as a courtesy, your men did not run me through." He said, a faint smile playing at his lips. With great care, minding the knife at his throat, Robb nods his head in confirmation of the accord. "Great." The ex-prisoner replies, removing his knife from her son's throat.

Reaching beneath his jerkin, near the base of his back, the unnamed man removes a scabbard for his knife. He straps the leather holster to his thigh, sheathing his dagger as he looks about the room, gesturing for men to clear his pasth, as though he had not just threatened their liege lord. Finding a small table tucked against a wall, the man pulls it towards the center of the room, producing a loud scream as the wooden legs scrape against the stone floor. "My name is Lothor Stone; sellsword, merchant and woodharp enthusiast." He shouts, to no one in particular, over the sound of horses dying.

Having found a suitable position, the man, now known as 'Lothor', turns to face the crowd of northerners. He reaches into his jerkin, pulling forth a sheet of parchment to a chorus of steel as the men surrounding him bare their arms. "I've shown you what I can do with my hands." He voices, grabbing at the scabbard on his shoulder. "Now I have a sword." He says, further antagonizing the assambled men at arms as he hands the parchment to Robb.

Breaking the seal on the letter with reckless abandon, Robb begins to scan the page, his brow creasing further the more he reads. When he is done, he begins to read the letter once more, and once more after that.

Unable to contain her anxiety, Catelyn takes hold of Robb's arm, gesturing for him to show her the parchment.

Robb seems to hesitate for a moment, his had wavering as he gives her the parchment. From the script, she can immediately see that it is from Ned. She labors over the parchment, treating each word as part of a sacred text.

Unfortunately, the further she reads, the less inspired she becomes. The words turn from words of care and love, to those of sadness and disappointment.

"Have you gotten to the part about Baelish yet?" Lothor inquires with no small measure of ridicule, forcing her eyes to him. "The part where he holds a knife to Lord Stark's throat is very interesting." He announces, making her feel smaller than she has in years.

Her eyes jump to the page, skimming until she gets to the potion that he reffered to. During the confrontation in the throne room, when I decided to count on his support, Lord Baelish and the City Watch turned on us, killing nearly every member of our household guard. Were it not for the intervention of some unfamiliar friends, my life as well as those of our children would have been lost.

She shot the messenger a look of contempt, as though he had forced Petyr to betray Ned. "And you are the unfamiliar friend?" She asks, not bothering to check the contempt in her voice.

"Me?" He gestures to himself with a look of contempt rivaling her own. "No. I barely know Lord Stark and I could hardly call him a friend." He returns, his eyes becoming vaguely distant. "I'm not sure if I even like him, really." He continues, shaking himself from his trance. "No. My captain made the choice to protect Lord Stark."

"And why would he trust a sellsword captain?" Robb asks, drawing her attention to his confused face. "More to the point, why would sellswords protect him without a contract?" he asked, jarring her.

While she had read the letter, it had not registered to her that her husband wrote of the sellswords coming to his aid, as opposed to fighting under him. Her eyes found Lothor as he tried to formulate a response.

"I have no idea." He responds, exhaling harshly. "Years later and his blood still has a pull on him." He continues, moving his hand to his side reflexively, sliding his dagger in and out of his sheath. "Four years and infinite battles later and he's still a sullen little bastard with mommy issues." He chuckles wryly.

Her stomach lurched, struggling with the implications of what she had just heard.

"He asked us to come to King's Landing because he needed to know about his mother." He said, continuing to fiddle with his dagger. "Lucky we did or your lady mother might have single handedly killed both your sisters and your father."

Robb bristles at his words, putting his hand to the grip of his sword. "I will not allow you to sully my mother's name." He returns in defense of her actions.

The messenger sighs, completely removing his dagger from the scabbard at his waist. "Stay your hand, boy." He counters, his tone dry. "In the best version of this, I kill half of you before you kill me, and I will ensure that you and your mother are among the dead." He says, sheathing his dagger, moving his hand to tug at his greatsword. "At worst, I kill you all, then return to King's Landing with a story about the evil of House Lannister."

"It was easy enough to take you down before, boy!" The Greatjon booms, causing Robb to smile slightly.

Incidently, it also brings a smile to Stone's face. "I was ordered to kill no one, before. Now, I might just kill you all and blame it on the enemy." He retorts, pulling his sword from the scabbard on the table. "It is a fact my lord; Lady Stark not only endangered Lord Stark, but his whole family and household." He seethed. "If I had arrived late to rescue Lady Arya or if Jon had been met with failure in the throne room, many more would have died." He nearly shouts, causing Robb to bristle at her side. "There is a girl named Jeyne mourning her father, in a strange place." He continues as his voice becomes increasingly emotional. "I've Lost more than one brother for this fight that isn't my own."

Her thoughts begin to race as the knowledge she has gained threatens to overwhelm her. For nearly five years she had not been plagued by the thought of her husband's bastard; now, in less than a day's turn, she had learned that her childhood friend had betrayed her expectation and the bastard in question had saved her family from this oversight. Her mind instantly began to latch onto other possibilities, including witch craft and subterfuge, though on some level she admits to the folly of her plan. She had not seen Petyr in years, at which time he was fervently professing his love to her.

"And now we must head into the Riverlands to engage an army of westerners, upset because you stole a little lion from them." Lothor continues counting her failures as a wife and mother. "Which is why Jon sent me. With Lord Stark's approval of course."

"You have the right of it." Robb agrees, giving her a look that dares her to speak out against his judgement. "Mistakes were made and now we march to right them, though I fail to see the purpose in your assitance."

Shocked, the sellsword's eyes threaten to fall from his head. "I provide experience in the subject of warfare." He counters, raising his hand as a commotion sweeps the room as several of the men about them quickly disarm their allies coralling them to the center of the small chamber. "You did not find me Robb." He waves his arm once more, signaling for his men to drop their arms. "We have been among you for a few days, eating and drinking and getting closer to all of your lords." Stepping to Robb, he lowers his sword as he leans in closer to the interim Warden of the North. "Within our company, my squad tends to deal with the less orthodox means of waging war, like infiltration and light siege warfare."

Gesturing to one of his men, the sellsword returns to the table as he sheaths his blade once more. A man with the chained giant of House Umber steps forward, providing the sellsword with a skin of wine as he sits upon the table, fidgeting with his dagger once more. "So, per Jon's orders, I am to aid your army in whatever capacity I can, along with one hundred and fifty men of my own." He proclaims, taking a hearty swig of his wine. "So, until such time as this war is over, I am your man Robb Stark." He extends his arm, taking another deep swig before passing the skin to Robb.

Robb considers the offered hand for a long moment, silently debating whether or not to take hold of it. "Judging from my father's word, I don't have much of a choice." He returns, taking hold of the hand and the skin in unison.

The tension slowly begins to abate from the hall as the men at arms take hold of their weapons once more, hopefully foreshadowing brighter days to come, though she could not help a knot she felt in her breast as the cold, emotionless eyes of Lothor Stone peer through her, shaking her to her core.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some basic info on the place where Cersei is being held.

**THE CAPTURED QUEEN**

A tumultuous shudder wrenches the Queen from her precarious perch, jerking her being downward, forcing her chains and bones and skin as one to grow taut, her bare feet scraping against the harsh wooden floor.

Widening her eyes, the lack of illumination is what draws her focus as she is roused from her delicate dormancy by the trembling hull about her, alerting her to a shifting in the sea without. A panic swells within her breast, threatening to overtake her senses before she has a chance to gather her wits. Closing her eyes, attempting to recapture the days before, Cersei is stricken by the realization of her current predicament, just as she was in the days prior. Fluttering her eyes fiercely, she takes notice of the bindings about her head, obscuring her view of the world without and stealing her vantage of her surroundings.

Still seizing from the pain of the splinters forcing themselves beneath her skin, Cersei rights herself, widening her stance as the pads at the base of her body continue to bleed. Jerking against the bindings upon her wrists, she endeavors, not for the first time, to pull her hands through her shackles. Flaying her outer layer against the rusted edges of the shackles binding her, Cersei stifles her screams, refusing to alert her captors as the harsh rattling about her chafes against her sanity.

Blood begins to poor down her arms and upon the remains of her gown, flowing like rivers and streams from her wrists and lower palms as she feels her bindings slowly give way.

“That was quite the feat, Lady Lannister!” A gentle voice opines from somewhere within her vicinity, jarring her considerably more than the waves without or the pain above. She stills, maintaining her posture and the positioning of her arms, remaining as silent as possible. “Just out of curiosity, what did you plan to accomplish by carving up your wrists?” It questions from the darkness, though she cannot discern where. She continues her subterfuge, hoping that her silence will draw them in or quench their curiosity.

A stifled chorus of laughter erupts around her, alerting her to the presence of more than one of her hosts. “The blindfold doesn’t work both ways.” It vocalizes, moving closer to the backdrop of metal clinking somewhere in the small space, followed by the screech of rusted metal hinges. “I’ve been here for some time, watching you.” He admits, his boots thumping against the floor of the cabin, inching closer to her by the second. “I wanted to see if you would tear off your hands to break free.” The stranger whispers, his face so close to hers that the scent of his breath caresses her nose, delivering the pleasant miasma of freshly clipped mint.

She lunges forward, bucking at the intruder as the chains suspending her against the wall grow taut, impeding her advance. Still seething into the darkness, having missed her target entirely, Cersei is clutched by the rough calloused palm of the stranger in her cell, forcing her head against the wall once more.

The sound of heavy breathing greets her as her mind begins to clear. “I apologize.” The voice returns, separating her skull from the surface behind her as he caresses her scalp. He sighs. “No permanent damage.” He observes, loosening his grip on her skull. “The Captain Commander asked that you not be harmed.” He whispers, caressing her cheek as the sound of chains clanking against metal enters the small cabin, accompanied by heavy the footfalls of several others.

As the noise grows nearer, a sharp point is pressed to her throat, pricking her skin. “If you move, you die.” A new voice, heavily accented and less soothing than the last, booms. She is certain that she has heard the inflection before, though she cannot recall where in her current state. “If you struggle, you die.” He continues, digging deeper into her nape. “Do you understand?”

For a long moment she stands in silence, allowing her lack of response to gnaw away at her would-be captive, testing their resolve. Thus far, they had bothered to feed her and see to her health from time to time, meaning that they likely needed her alive.

The tip is pressed against her neck more forcefully, creating a small stream down her neck. “When you are asked a question, you will answer.” He instructs with contempt. “We have the young fat one and the girl, so do not believe that you are irreplaceable.” He continues, removing the tip from her neck, allowing her the room to breathe. “You are only worth as much as your father is willing to pay.”

Defeated, Cersei nods her head. “I understand.” She seethes, feeling the hand tapping softly against her check, petting her flesh like some mongrel pup.

“Good.” The voice says, lightening slightly at her agreement. “Shackle her.”

For a moment, the former Queen of the Seven Kingdoms does not understand, as she is already bound to the wall in chains. This is clarified when the collar adorning her neck is undone, clashing against the wall behind her with a loud clang. This freedom is short-lived, as another band is wrapped around here throat, this one cooler than the last. Strange objects begin to fall around her torso from her neck restraint, like a coronet of stakes, tapping the floor softly as they brush against her person.

The shackles at her wrists are undone, provoking her to flee, though she stifles her instincts for fear of her children in the clutches of these monsters. Her wrists are shackled once more, her hands entwined upon her lower back as the men begin to work on the bindings of her legs.

“Where am I?” She questions, straightening her spine. _The lion bows to no one_ , the voice of her father intones, providing her with courage.

The individual from her previous encounter sighs, his gravelly voice unmistakable among those around her. “I remember saying something about questions, and how asking them is unwise.” He responds, mistakenly.

Questions were not mentioned in his threatening speech, though she would likely gain nothing by antagonizing him with his faults. “Where is my eldest son?” She inquires, pushing the brute a bit further as the shackles about her feet are snapped into position.

The continued scuffing of boots and steel upon the wooden floor alert her to their imminent departure, increasing the thrumming beneath her breasts. All about her, the objects tethered to her collar begin to shift from her torso, holding her neck in place and guiding her forward slightly. On her left shoulder where her neck meets her torso, a slight hand weighs heavily, disrupting her thoughts. "No more questions." The stranger whispers harshly into her hair, shoving her forward. "You are being escorted to a new location, where you will be housed until further notice." He continues, his voice returning to a thunderous boom.

Heading off any further questions, their armed escort sets forth, heaving the rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men forcibly along the decaying wooden planks. Struggling to keep pace with her escort, she collides with a dense stationary object, racking her shoulder and knee with pain as she tumbles toward the floor, scouring her knee and shin against a raised platform of some sort.

"Careful, Your Grace." The stranger mocks, chuckling harshly at her expense. "We've arrived to the stairs."

Struggling to her feet, aided only by the yoke about her neck, Cersei inhales deeply before taking her next step. Lifting her knee to the fullest extent, her movement made cumbersome by her irons binding her, a slight splinter from the cleft of the second step pierces her skin, loosing a slow trickle between her toes. She continues onward without complaint.

The stairs are mercifully short, numbering less than ten in all, though her restricted gait multiplies the number of steps she must take. There is a short pause as the sound of a pair of doors opening hits her ears, colliding lazily with some sturdy surface without. Shuffling beneath the threshold of her prison, she is immediately stricken by the smell of fresh ocean air, much cleaner and crisper than that of the waters surrounding the Red Keep. The sting beneath her feet only confirms her suspicions as the briny water upon the deck mingles with the blood from her wounds.

Treading further from the hold below, the sounds of idle chatter can be heard in several tongues, in addition to the grating of wood against wood and clanging of metal. Listening closely, she attempts to glean something useful from the conversations flowing around her, hoping to gain insight into her current location. All around her, voices come and go in bursts and streams, spewing forth rivers of incomprehensible nonsense. To one side, a conversation between two gruff voices rages on in a series of harsh grumbles and clicks.

So engrossed in the words of others, Cersei nearly tumbles down the wooden incline beneath her, saved only by the thick arm wrapped about her middle. She rights herself, enfolding herself into the body of her savior. Her hands instinctively clutch at the mans clothing, mistakenly taking hold of his manhood beneath his breeches.

“Careful, Your Grace.” The stranger whispers into her ear, gently aiding her in retaining her balance. "I think you're beginning to enjoy my company." He croons, adjusting his breeches so that his cock is free of her grasp before gently nudging her forward. "Jon specifically requested that you be kept alive."

Registering a light tugging around her throat, she takes a measured step forward, resuming her descent of the gangplank once more. With each minute, shuffled movement, Cersei takes further note of the wobbling slab of wood beneath her, conjuring an image of the mooring on the other side. Continuing slowly and methodically, she envisions a shabby dock, crafted of rotting untreated wood, connecting the ocean to the unknown land mass.

“Watch your step.” A voice shouts somewhere before her, alerting her to the looming edge of the plank.

She steps gingerly; unaware of what awaits her below, finding the surface beneath her feet craggy and uneven. She begins to pad along the surface of the stone shore, taking note of the damp, slick ground beneath her feat. Feeling the cool embrace of the water lapping at her toes, stealing away the blood from her wounded soles, Cersei is made aware of the general location of her prison: the coastal area of the Vale.

An insistent tugging about her throat prompts her to continue onward, scraping her raw skin against the craggy surface as she attempts to keep pace. As their march continues, Cersei attempts to divide her focus, using half of her concentration to survey the lands beneath her and the area around her, reserving the other half to count her paces as a reference point.

Keeping pace with her captors, ignoring the lacerations aggravating her already sensitive skin, Cersei sharpens her senses, focusing on any sounds or scents that might give her a clue to her exact location. _Seven. Eight. Nine. One-hundred and forty._ The only discernible noise to be taken from her surroundings are the lapping of waves against the rocky shores, accompanied by the sound of boots scraping against moist stone, chains clanking about her person and the cry of birds above. _Eight. Nine. Three-hundred and ten._

Judging by the harsh, moist terrain and the access to the Narrow Sea, she might have named this place as Gulltown, if not for the lack of occupancy. _Three. Four. Five._ A harsh grip takes hold of her shoulder, forcing the procession to a halt. _Six-hundred and ninety-six paces from the ocean to this point._

Somewhere in expanse before her, a member of their party shuffles forward, their lone footfalls echoing against the face of some surface off to her right as they inch further and further away.

Silence. The void extends around her, whipping her heart into a frenzy as she contemplates her fate. Stop it, she chastises herself. They need you alive. They've said as much, she recalls, slowing her pulsing chest to a light trot.

A shuffling in the distance draws her from her internal dialogue, focusing her attentions on the missing scout.

"All clear ahead." An unfamiliar voice announces, drawing closer with each footfall. "High tide's rolling in, so we might want to hurry this up." He continues, his accent strange, though not in the same way as the man from before.

"Alright." The gruff, accented voice from before responds. "We take her in quickly and carefully." He continues, a hand resting on her shoulder in askance. "Watch your step, Your Grace." He instructs. "The path is quite narrow." With that, he retreats.

The tugging at her neck resumes, though less insistent than before, forcing her to continue onward, despite her desire to protest her lack of sight on the supposedly narrow path.

Trudging forward at the behest of her guides, she continues along the solid surface of the rock, shifting her gait accordingly as the ground becomes steeper and narrower. Shuffling down the sheer rock face, she nearly howls in surprise as her toes touch the water, forcing her to halt.

A firm hand at he back shoves her forward. "We do not have the time for this." The gruff voice shouts behind her, pushing her forward onto an even plateau where the water touches her knees. Scuttling upon impact, her left foot falls from the shelf of the plateau, nearly plunging her into the depths of the sea, if not for the collar about her throat.

Yielding no time to right herself or catch her breath, her captors rush her forward, forcing her shackled legs to struggle through the rising waters as they dart through the long, narrow corridor, the sound of sloshing water echoing about the cavernous hallway.

It is unclear how long they have been running when they reach the base of the weathered stairs, though the water is well passed her waist and rising swiftly. She abandoned the concept of counting her steps long ago, in lieu of drowning or being trampled.

She barely has a moment to catch her breath before registering an audible clicking sound ahead. "Identify yourselves." A voice booms from on high.

"Adechike." The brusque voice of her captor replies, hurriedly attempting to regain his composure. "Captain of _The Dauntless_." He continues, brushing passed his captive, his clothing just as wet as her own. "Now open the gods damned gate, you arse." He concludes, a metallic thud ringing through the corridor a moment later.

The shuddering grind of chains folding on themselves, accompanied by the scream of rusted metal, alert her to the raising of a portcullis. This takes her by surprise, as she assumed they had been within a cave the entire time. She'd never been within a cave with a portcullis.

The men ahead of her advance, yanking upon her collar for her to follow. Cersei acquiesces, having no other alternative, though she continues counting her steps, under the assumption that she is now within the dungeon.

"The Lady Val has been waiting for you Ade." A hoarse voice pronounces somewhere to the side of her, his inflection jovial. "She didn't seem pleased." He continues, the sound of the portcullis nearly drowning out his words as it lowers.

She steps upon a raised platform, noting the bobbing of the floor beneath her. Their party ceases their march as some sort of barrier is slammed shut behind her, causing her to start. "It is nearly impossible for me to care less about what the commander's whore thinks." The man formally known as Adechike replies, pounding his fist upon the wall about them, revealing the telling noise of bone on wood. "Bring us up." He shouts.

A shudder rocks the floor, nearly toppling her to her face. Stumbling forward, she makes contact with a hard surface, feeling the rough pang of light armor as a pair of arms wrap around her. "Everyone's first time is their worst." Adechike asserts, steadying her stance as the room comes to a shuddering halt. "Come along." He sighs, releasing her as the tension about her neck returns.

Shuffling along the stone floor, Cersei takes note of the surface, smooth and polished, as opposed to the craggy surface of the stone facade without. The thrum of their footfalls reverberate upon the wall, casting an echo down the long corridor, assuring her of their current location within the walls of some sort of keep.

Suddenly, there is a hard jerk of her collar, forcing her to turn right. "Watch your step." Adechike instructs, giving her the time to prepare for the first step.

As they trudge slowly up the stairs, the shallow roar of multiple conversations takes root in her ear, growing louder as they ascend. Reaching a small landing, clearly leading into some sort of hall or common area, the raucous roar of the men within reaches an intolerable volume, making her grateful for their further ascent away from the merriment.

Having arrived upon the desired floor, they begin the march down another corridor, silently approaching her destination.

"What in the hells took you so long?!" An effeminate voice shouts from somewhere in the distance. " _The Narada_ made it back three days ago, with the other two!" The voice continues.

An audible sigh can be heard from someone close by. "I personally do not give a damn." Adechike returns, halting their procession.

There is a clicking in a lock before her, followed by the opening of a door. "Hyle can do as he pleases with his ship, and I with mine own." Adechike continues as she is ushered forward.

The formation of her escort tightens, informing her of their passage though the threshold. She is turned abruptly to the right, where she can hear another click, denoting yet another door being opened. She is swiftly led through the door to the cell, her collar removed and dropped to the floor in a heap near her toes, tickling her lightly.

"The same rules as before apply: no resistance, no movement and no unnecessary questions." Adechike announces, grasping the sides of her head with both hands. With a gentle touch, he removes the thick bindings from her eyes, exposing her to the harsh light permeating through the large windows.

It takes her sight a moment to adjust, as several men move about her in a blur, removing her shackles and collecting her restraints. Still adjusting to her newfound vision, she is unable to make out a single face of any of the men moving about her.

"That's enough men." The voice of the woman chimes, emanating from a spot in the room, characterized by a golden and ivory figure, draped in drab colors. The men begin to file out, stepping through the threshold and coming through on the other side, completely visible. Bars.

Another figure approaches the woman, this one much taller and darker. "In the future, do not presume to order my men." Adechike seethes, clearly glowering down at the smaller commander. "Sharing Jon's bed does not make you my commander."

Shoving the larger figure away, the woman takes a defensive stance. "No." She answers simply. "Being third in command behind Martyn makes me your commander." She retorts.

Adechike steps forward once more, though his intentions are unknown to her. Before he can reach the woman, he is shoved aside once more, this time by another figure. "What is this folly?" The man inquires stepping forward to kneel before her. "Why do you insist on behaving like children?" He chastises, grabbing her ankle roughly and examining her foot.

She turns her focus onto this man, intent on regaining her eyesight after her long ordeal. 

"Now," the man sighs, lifting her foot to observe her skin. "I'm just going to look at you foot here." He continues, grunting as he reaches to his side, removing a cloth from a bowl. "Wouldn't want you to die on me, Your Grace." He says, ring out the cloth with his unencumbered hand, before running it down the length of her foot.

It stings to the touch forcing her to retreat onto the large featherbed, which is surprising, for she does not remember taking her seat. "Who are you?" She inquires, frightened and panicked. "What is that?" She hisses as he makes another pass along her arch, aggravating the skin there.

For a moment the stranger goes about his business, taking hold of her other ankle, dipping his cloth into the bowl before rubbing at her foot again. "Well," He drawls. "This is to keep from infecting your bloodstream." He returns, dropping the towel into the bowl and holding it up to her. "It is a mixture of water and salt, along with some diluted arbor gold." He explains, placing the bowl down beside him, snapping his fingers to the younger pair silently glowering towards one another.

Adechike, a tall, lean summer islander with dark skin steps forward, carrying a small bundle of bandages. "And as for who I am," The man says, taking hold of the offered bandages. "I am Symond, the unofficial Maester of this castle." He continues, wrapping the bandages about one of her feet. "And until I am told otherwise, I shall be your caretaker as well." He concludes, offering her a kindly smile as he tightens the wrap on her foot.


	16. Chapter 16

**URGENT MESSAGE: NOT AN UPDATE**

 

To all the faithful readers of this fic, I want to apologize for this upsetting development; to those that dislike, or even hat this fic, there might be cause to celebrate.

As of now, this fic is officially on hiatus, pending further inspiration and possible theme change. This has more to do with a lack of motivation than anything.

I can't give a definitive timing for the next new update, but if you have any ideas or corrections in the story and grammar so far, let me know.

I'll try to make the next addition before **December, 2016**


	17. NOT AN ACTUAL UPDATE!!!

It is a great burden on me personally as a writer and a fan of the ASOIAF Community at large, so make no mistake; I have not made this decision lightly.

From this point onward, I intend to discontinue this particular work, instead choosing to focus on the other fictions that I have been working on in conjunction with this: **_Lioness/Pup_** and _**Bad Moon Arising**_.

This is not to say that I am abandoning this work as a whole- which I will continue to work on, hammering out the finer details of the plot to provide a better narrative experience- but mainly to set a realistic expectation of when new chapters will be posted.

Please be on the lookout for new content, and I want to give a special thanks to those who were awaiting fresh content.

 

PS. First drafts of any new chapters will be posted on [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/7097210/).


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